Left to Die
by ShhUrDead678
Summary: As a baby, Sam was separated by the fire. Dean finds him at a bar, but doesn't know it's him. While on a hunt, both John and Dean find out the truth about their missing family member, and his past. Hurt!Sam16 Pissed!Dean20 -Contains lots of abuse-
1. Chapter 1

Dean huffed as he got out of the Impala and chugged a duffel bag out of the trunk, unloading the car. They had a lot of baggage to get and it was going to be fairly time consuming. He took two more out before trucking them into their newly acquired stay. John, already ahead of Dean, opened the door for Dean as he hefted them inside the hotel.

As John went over to the desk, Dean observed the lobby. It was slightly higher quality than he was used to. The walls were a cream color, while nearly all the furniture were different shades of red; bright red, pinkish, maroon, even blood red- it was all there. Sure, there were a few grungy spots on the ceiling and perhaps unidentifiable puddles of various liquids across the floor. In their line of duty, there wasn't much more you could expect without being suspicious.

Hanging above them was a small chandelier above their heads, sparkling when it hit the overhead lights in just the right way. Dean, pleased, set the bags down at his feet and sat down in a nice, but affordable couch. It was nice material, not icky, like, once again, he was used to.

He could settle for this.

Settling further into the chair, he looked over to his father. The lady at the reception's desk was currently discussing the route to their floor level and room number. They would no doubt get lost. Neither he, nor John, were used to looking down halls and riding up elevators to get to their room. Most of the time, the defiling motels they stayed in were one story, maybe two. Either way, this place left all their previous accommodations in the dust.

Dean visibly cringed when he watched an indefinable creature scuttle into the corner. _Mostly_ in the dust.

Finished, John walked back over to Dean's current location, which was stretched out on a nice red couch with his legs propped up on the table in front of him. In one swift motion, John kicked his legs off.

"Get the bags, time to head up."

Dean threw one duffle over his shoulder while holding the other two, one in each hand. He followed his father down a narrow hallway until they made a left to reach the elevators. John walked forward, reaching for the button. In an instant, Dean ran up and slapped John's hand away from the button. John looked up, dumbfounded.

"I wanna do it."

Dean didn't get a chance to look at John's reaction as he pressed the button. He grinned widely as it opened up, the doors coming from the center and widening out. He was a little disappointed there wasn't a loud and ominous "Enter", but was nonetheless enticed by the odd contraption.

Once the elevator dinged at floor 4, they got out and headed to the room number 412. Arriving at the doorstep, John put the key card into the machine, pulled the door handle, then pushed against the door. It didn't budge; instead, a red dot appeared on the key card holder thingy, and they looked at it puzzlingly.

"Maybe you did it wrong" Dean said, more as a question than a statement. John went for it again, this time putting the card in the other way. The red light remained, the dot blearing at them mockingly.

Dean took the card from John and twisted it another way. "Try it now."

The red light transformed to green and John pushed at the door, opening it with a stiff push. He heaved a sigh of relief, took a duffle bag from Dean and walked into the room.

Dean looked around the room. No rust, mold, or other unidentifiable objects that could be mistakened for unknown lifeforms. Okay, that wasn't true, but it was a damn sight better than the usual up-in-your-face kind of mold, the kind that followed you around until you finally barfed up your lunch into the nearest trash can.

Thankfully, the room didn't _smell _like mold, instead of vanilla-scented air-freshener. There were two full beds on the left side of the room, backed into the wall. The sheets were of stark comparison to that of the lobby, being more a peach color than a bloody red. Satisfied, Dean chugged the bags on the floor and went over to sit on the bed farthest from the door. His father _always _took the other bed, no questions asked. It used to bug him, it really did. What would have happened if some murderous asshole had come into the motel and his father was the nearest victim?

Of course, he was sure that was John's reasoning all along.

John set the duffle alongside Dean's and sat on the opposite bed. "Now what? The guns are cleaned and we have to wait till the next full moon. We've got a long time to waste."

He was right. They had a werewolf to track, and it wasn't going to be fun. Well, the part where it died would be fun as hell but, for the other part, not so much. They had to track it down; it was known for hunting around local schools, chewing on little kid's intestines and internal organs. Not that that wasn't exciting and all, but he had a job to do, and he sure as hell'd get it done.

Eventually.

The next full moon was coming in about two weeks, so the Winchesters had time to spare until the due date. On the way here, Dean had spotted a local bar on the side of the street: The Braders, he recalled. He could use a break, if not a small one.

He stood up and headed over to the door. "I'm gonna check out the bar. I could use a beer."

John nodded, understanding the kid needed a break. Though he said nothing, the look in his eyes only meant one thing: Be careful. Dean nodded his head in his direction as he headed off to The Braders.

After fifteen minutes of twisting and turning, he finally found his destination. It was a small, but not too small to where the beer they served was crap on a stick. The exterior was that of wood with red spray painter on top saying "The best beer you'll find for a while." Nice motto. Nifty.

Dean walked in, not necessarily armed. All he kept was a small, deadly, knife in his backpocket. He, though wordlessly, promised his father he'd stay out of trouble, and he was good on that promise. But, if someone else wanted to get _in _trouble, he didn't have a problem with stepping up to the plate. Nothing wrong with more practice.

As Dean looked around the bar, he didn't really think a knife would be much needed. There were no bar fights going on and, even if there were people hustling, no one seemed sore about their losses. Not that there weren't any stupid people around; there always is, whether you were in a bar or in a high-class studio. The bar was filled with few drunks, but enough to where, if they all boycotted, the situation could turn rather sticky.

Dean kept to himself, heading over to the bar and sitting down. The tabletop was made of a nice marble, not too fancy too cheap. Just the way he liked it.

A young man appeared in front of him from behind the bar. Dean, already ready to order, faltered slightly. What struck Dean full-swing was how young the kid was. _Maybe _17. No more. His shaggy brown hair was long, nearly his shoulders but not quite touching. His bangs nearly covered his eyes. He swooped them professionally out of his eyes to present them to the world; they were a deep, _deep_ blue. Dean did a double take; those eyes, why did they look so familar? He was a scrawny kid; one of those kid's that probably couldn't hold a fist if someone should've there own up there ass. Dean was always one to judge based on appearance, at first glance, but he was beginning to see something lurk behind those blue eyes. He couldn't place it, but he decided against his previous statement. There was something with those eyes, the way they all but stared you down, watching, memorizing, and taking notes of every move you made. The way that, when someone moved, he moved in synchronization to negate the attack, if there was one to begin with.

"Problem?"

Dean jerked himself out of his daze. He realized he had probably been looking at the the entire time. Embarassed, he quickly ordered himself a Corona.

Damn. He needs to be more careful.

**SNSNSNSN**

I apologize there's not much Sam yet. I'm working on it, I promise. I don't know if you guys want me to finish so send me some love/hate comments!

Also, sorry its so short. I didn't want to work too much on it if you didnt like it...

HOPE U LIKED IT!

**REVIEWS MAKE ME UPDATE EVEN FASTER!** -just if you were wondering, no biggie


	2. Chapter 2

_**Luv Ya like I love my pet fish Fluffy!  
**_P.S.- I don't have a pet fish! **=O **

this is kinda a new story i've started and i hope you enjoy it.

**ENJOY!**

Dean considered the boy in front of him as he took a swipe at the last of his beer, setting the empty bottle down in front of him. He didn't know why, but there was something different about this bartender kid. He was young, way too fucking young to be in a place like this. Wasn't there some sort of age limit for working at bars, anyway? But his eyes were so old, so full of knowledge. But there was also hardship that lurked behind those eyes. Agony.

Though he wasn't sure why, Dean didn't like even the thought of that; the idea that the kid had to deal with anything so brutal in his short life. Yeah, he feels sympathy for those who have lived through tough times- join the damn club- but seeing this kid, _this _kid, made him view it all differently, like a fresh pair of eyes seeing for the first time. There were more people out there that had _worse _lives than him and his father. There were things out there worse than getting clawed by werewolves and mutilated by demon bastards.

The kid had walked back over to stand slightly to the left of Dean, resting his elbows on the marble table top.

"You starting a tab or one beer good enough?" The kid asked patiently. The words were spoken from a soft, innocent voice. It almost made Dean doubt Sam's rough life, take back everything he thought previously, because the kid did sound like your average bartender.

Almost_._

"A tab would be great."

The kid bartender nodded curtly and walked over to get Dean another bottle. Dean took it absentmindedly and pushed it down his throat. The cold, tingling feeling he got was a cool sensation, refreshing.

Dean cleared his throat, attracting the boy's attention. "So how's life been treating you?"

Maybe bluntness was best in situations like these - it was hard to get people's attention with subtle glances and barely whispered words anyway. If the kid so much as twitched at the question Dean would see it. Hunters weren't just your average humans blazing guns around the place; they were tactile, observant, and lethal. For Dean, a twitch was the near equivalent to a loud ass admittance of the truth.

But there was nothing. No twitchy movements, no beating around the bush, no sweat glistening down his forehead, no "Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit" expressions. The kid bartender looked completely at ease, as if he'd answered the same question twenty fucking times. Maybe he had. Or, maybe he'd led a normal life like all the other kids. Maybe there was nothing in those deep blue eyes that indicated any signs of struggle. Maybe Dean was just seeing what he wanted to see.

The kid cleaned a wine stain off the table top, watching Dean evenly. "It has its ups and downs. You?"

Dean nodded, held a finger up as the kid handed him a much necessary shot. He downed it before setting the glass aside.

"Never been better."

He watched the edges of the boy's lips curve downward a fraction. What the hell? Was he _reading _Dean? Could he see into _his _eyes and tell of the life he had led? No, only true hunters could do that. If not hunters, then some else, someone higher up on the food chain, someone that _wasn't _this kid. An equivalent to a hunter was most certainly not a kid bartender serving up drinks. You had to be good, really good.

Dean took another swift glance at him from his side vision and looked at the kid's stance. As he'd noticed earlier, his body was set rigid in a rather defensive way . Not that the posture itself was defensive, but the body structure he held was intact and exuded confidence. Maybe he had been taught to _look_ unpreparedso that when someone comes they'll take advantage of it - yet, they really won't. He'd whip their ass.

And that's exactly what he was going to do.

A big ass guy had walked not ten minutes ago and took a seat at the bar, seated only three seats to the left of Dean. His hair was black as midnight, with a muscle shirt just as black. He was wearing sunglasses, but he snatched them off the second he stepped into The Braders. On his left forearm, there was a tattoo of a skull with fire on the outskirts. On his right, there was a long dagger, blood dripped from the tip and falling into the puddle of blood that was above his wrist. His jeans were worn and ragged and, based on the man's appearance, they were very probably self-inflicted, just to make himself look more intimidating.

Wasn't that hard to do. He was bigger than a fucking bull.

Sneering, the bulky man continued with his business, which seemed to be looking over his shoulder constantly and drinking himself silly. Minutes later, Dean sighed loudly in annoyance as the man let out a cruel, earpiercing laugh. He stood up, quite quick for someone on their umpteenth beer, and strutted in front of the kid bartender.

Dean's eyebrows lowered, his gaze fierce as a look of hunger crossed the man's face. The boy's stance stayed loose and composed, continuing his duty of cleaning the table tops.

The man leaned in closer toward the boy, smirking. "Ah, how long it's been since I've seen you. I've finally found you, boy, and if you knew what was best for you, you'd run." His smile widened. "I've been waiting so long for this moment."

The kid's eyebrow twitched, but he seemed determined to ignore the man, fixing Dean another drink. Dean became further angered, not only with the man, but with the boy. He should _know _better than to act so apathetic to a man thrice his size. Was he asking for this? Dean hissed. The kid should at least look at the man, maybe even respond with some sort of gesture that meant, very kindly, "Get the fuck away from me."

The kid said nothing, and did nothing. He set another shot in front of Dean; he didn't pick it up, his eyes still on the three-hundred pound pain in the ass. The man pursed his lips, livid. He grabbed the kid by the collar, forcing him to look into his eyes as he did the same. "I suggest you show me a little more respect." A trigger must have gone off in the kid, because his eyes alone were full of emotions: outrage, constraint, hostility, brutality, contempt...regret. Dean paused; why was he regrettful? Did he regret ignoring the man when he came in? Did he regret not making him leave, because he _knew _this would happen? Dean was too good to misread someone, but maybe it wasn't for anything related to the bigass guy at his neck. Maybe he forget to put his socks in the dryer this morning, and he regretted leaving the house with wet socks. Or he could have dumped his girlfriend and was remorseful of making her cry.

Dean allowed himself to stray from the more probable truth. Yes, it was the socks scenario. Had to be. It couldn't be any of the formers because if the kid _knew _the man was bad news, then that'd mean he knew the guy, or had some relation to the guy. And _that _would be bad news.

The boy hissed at the older man. "Respect? You want _my_ respect?" He laughed humorlessly. "Fuck you."

The man acted like he pondered the thought. "No no, how about, 'fuck _you_'."

The kid bartender's anger turned to quiet fury as waged a war within himself. There must have been some sort of stalemate because the expression on his face never changed or implied resolution.

Luckily, he had better luck outside his mind.

The kid threw a punch to the man's face, an effective swipe that was just enough to have him staggering backward. He took the grip the man had at his collar and snatched it away, twisting the man's arm with an expertise very few were capable of. The man sheathed in agony, sweat glistening down his forehead and onto the marble tabletop of the bar. He had some fight left in him, he wasn't done. He hooked his free arm around and swiftly, without warning, aimed it right at the kid's jaw. Unconcerned, the kid moved to the side gracefully, as if he had known how to dodge a fucking _bullet _at the age of five.

Maybe he could.

Unaware of Dean's train of thought, he threw a punch to the man's gut, slid dexterously over the tabletop, and ended up beside the man without a second's notice. The man's eyes widened to the size of dinner plates. He was scared. No, that wasn't it. Petrified.

Obviously, the last time he had met the kid he wasn't some invincible ninja, either because he wasn't that good yet or the kid was seriosuly holding back. Dean voted the latter.

The kid bartender grabbed the back of the man's collar in a tight grip, holding the face still in line with his. "If you ever talk to me about respect again," he said seriously, "I'll kill you."

Swiftly and elegantly, like that of a gazelle, he punctuated his words by slamming his head into the tabletop, a bang resonating throughout the bar. The man's body, now limp, slid slowly to the floor before hitting bottom with a loud thud.

And that was that.

By then everyone in the bar had gone silent, watching the scene unfold before them. It was a sight, that was for damn sure; the man was on the ground in a matter of seconds, and everyone there knew there was going to be some serious bruising. The kid had been so fast, so good, so _lethal_.

Unaware, Dean's mouth was hanging slightly open in that of awe. How could he be so...so...He couldn't even describe it. In and of itself, the kid was a mystery. He was a full-out mindblowing _mystery._ An engima that took years to unravel only an iota of the secret of his psyche. It was as if he had been doing kung-fu when he was fucking _born_. The elegance he had, it was so natural, so characteristic of the kid, it scared even Dean. Dean knew he was good, he had to be for the lifestyle he led, he's kicked a werewolf's ass in a matter of minutes, but when he compared himself with that kid, _that _kid, he felt as effective as a soggy bowl of cereal.

He couldn't have been that good instinctively. Being born gifted can only take you so far. He had to have practiced, and a lot.

Who was this kid?

**SNSNSNSN**

Alright, so insight would definitely help with this chapter; I would love to know any potential future references if y'all have any.

Don't worry, I'm still working on "Found in Time" AND focusing on this fanfic! I'm capable of multitasking when i have to be =)

_HOPE U ENJOYED IT!_

_**CHECK OUT MY POLL FOR THE "KILL FOR YOU" SEQUEL!**_


	3. Chapter 3

_**Luv Ya like I love my pet fish Fluffy!  
**_P.S.- I don't have a pet fish! **=O**

I have NO beta! Sorry for the inconvenience! hope u like it!

**ENJOY!**

By now, a thin, almost gothic young man walked closer toward the damage on the floor, staring down at the thick mass of limbs, ligaments, and flesh. In retrospect, there wasn't a whole lot of blood; the kid hadn't actually used any sharp objects, just kung-fu and a kickass punch. Either way, the big man had fallen, and fast. Not only had he been big, but muscular, and physically capable of taking down a pickup truck with his thumb. Despite it all, the kid had come out the victor; his elegance in battle was like that a ballerina - a male ballerina without the tutu, no doubt. He seemed to take in every movement; not only of his opponent's, but his own as well. Even the tiniest of steps were measured and evaulated and, if there was the smallest of defects, he would take them into account, work the mishap into his calculation, and play it out strategically.

At least, that's what Dean assumed he did.

The same young man from behind the bar stared at the kid bartender dubiously, almost questioning him with his eyes. He had ebony black hair just passed his shoulders with dark bangs covering one eye, the other eyeing the kid and the big guy down for the count with an indefinable expression.

He was likely to be more Dean's age, but was nonetheless young, maybe 19. The gray eyes seemed strained, deteriorated, and much too mature for a 19-year-old. His cheekbones were bony and gaunt, his entire frame almost as thin as the other kid bartender's, though the brown-haired kid had more muscle. His shoulders sagged ever so slightly, enough of a hunch for Dean to catch which, in truth, wasn't saying much. His left ear was pierced, as was his eyebrow. He wore a black _Slipknot_ long-sleeve shirt with dark jeans.

The young man looked pissed at this point, and didn't give a damn if it showed. He paced from behind the bar to where the man lay still, the rising and falling of his chest the only implication he was alive. Goth Boy rested two fingers on the side of the man's neck and, after a moment, sighed a quiet sigh of relief. He looked back at Blue Eyes, the kid's mouth opening then immedaitely closing, like whatever he was going to say just died in his mouth. Maybe he didn't have the heart or voice to say it. Instead, the kid used his deep blue eyes, their gaze containing something deep and indefinable, like he was trying to say something with his eyes alone.

It was odd, watching the exchange, and Dean didn't know what the hell was going on. In no more than a moment, Goth Boy went through the drastic transformation from enraged to concerned. His rage had dissipated entirely, his gray eyes filling with understanding and resignation, a since of surrender sweeping over him like a thin veil draped over the mahogany table in your dining room.

Frustrated, Dean studied the kid bartender once more; there were no blatant emotions on his face. Not the slightest crease, the slightest twitch that could have any meaning, but there had to be some sort of significance, right? He kicked that guy's ass, a _customer's _ass, and he was suddenly off the hook? Why would the man have such an abrupt conversion when the kid all but tore out the man's organs, threw them at people walking down the street, and went shoving it down peoples' throats when they weren't looking?

Well…_slight _exaggeration. Whatever.

Dean came to the obvious conclusion that the two knew more than he did and instead watched as the blood coming from the unconscious man's mouth dribbled messily onto the floor. It fell at fairly consistent intervals, the faint splash of liquid hitting solid irking on his nerves.

With paper towel in hand, the kid bartender wiped at the man's mouth, only the slightest grimace appearing on his face. Dean cocked a curious eyebrow. He knocks a man unconscious in a matter of seconds then gets woozy at the sight of blood? _No, _Dean thought, _I _hardly_ believe that. _But what else could it be?

The kid bartender hooked his arms underneath the elder man's with reluctance then lifted the torso portion of his body off the floor, dragging him behind the counter. No one seemed deprived with the loss of a fellow body, or they just decided not to speak out on it. Dean nodded to himself. Something deep inside them told them the two youths in front were in charge- and not only because they worked there.

With the main source of the entertainment hidden and unconscious, you can't expect much else exciting to occur, or so Dean thought. Dean took a glance around the small bar, seeing a few pairs of eyes still transifixed on the aftermath of the fight.

Dean scratched his chin absently, confused. There was nothing to look at anymore. All the blood was wiped clean off the floor and the body was moved to a significantly less obvious location. What else was there to look at? Nothing, that's what. Dean sighed in aggravation. Why can't humans just deal with it and move on, instead of prolong the damn thing. Yeah, it was an exquisite fight but nobody's fighting shit anymore, it's _over._There's nothing to go ogle about, no more blood to crave, and no more revealing bruises to "mysteriously" appear. He honed in on an elderly woman - and how often do you see _those _here?- and followed her line of sight, leading in the general direction of the black-haired guy and the kid bartender. The latter was currently bending down at the waist, probably fixing up the man behind the bar in a less apparent position. What with his legs sticking out someone could walk in and see the body...or they could just trip, either worked fine.

Dean turned around again and followed the eyes of another, younger woman. She looked like one of those sleezy kind of women, long blonde hair, plump lips, and silicone breasts. Of course, that's how Dean liked his women, but that was obviously not the point. Presently, her mouth was in the shape of an "o" and let out a low whistle. After a few seconds, Dean was particularly slow to realize they were admiring the kid's ass, even some of the men taking a peek. Dean snorted loudly. What was that word? Oh yeah, fucking _pervs. _He gritted his teeth, the sound of bones crunching together all too realistic, and clenched his fists until the nails left imprints on his palms.

Wait...why was he angry?

Dean scrubbed his hands over his face in frustration. Technically, the question was understandable. He didn't know the kid, not a damn bit, and people just needed a distraction every now and again to forget how suckish their lives really were. But that's no reason to self-inflict your palms. Besides, he's seen people get hit on and/or groped numerous times. Sometimes Dean did something about it, sometimes no, but he never reacted like this - never was he seething in such a ferocious manner, smoke coming through his ears and nose. Come on, he wasn't a fucking bull. He was willing to admit, nonetheless, he felt this weird connection with the kid. Nothing concrete, perceivable, but more cloudy and elusive. It was like there was an invisible line that attached the two in a sort of unbreakable bond. A line so powerful even a pair of magical scissors sprinkled with fairy dust could do nothing to change that connection.

The kid seemed to notice that at the same instant Dean did. He stood at his full height - getting a few groans and one "I'd tap that!" from his fellow customers. _Or spectators,_ Dean thought in annoyance. The kid looked back at Dean inquisitively. The moment their eyes connected was the moment they turned away. There had been some sort of unidentifiable spark, no doubt. Why? Dean may never know, but he didn't allow himself to think anything of it. How could he possibly feel for a stranger? Not in the sexual sense, of course. Dean had always liked women, a lot. Still, it didn't change things. They had some sort of unplaceable bond, neither annoying or exciting, just...there.

He allowed himself to think no more of it. With the man's body gone, the blood wiped away, and the kid's ass turned the other direction, all further occupants grew uninterested. Fast. They turned back to their meager, meaningless conversations, gulping down their booze with the anticipation of throwing away what was left of their lives without any thought.

Dean looked away to take another look at the kid bartender. He was currently serving a customer and handed the woman -the same observing blonde- three beers. She thanked him and offered a sly smile, then stalked off to a back table. The kid walked over to the sink in front of Dean and started on washing and drying the wine glasses.

The kid didn't have a scratch or blemish on him. The bulky man had done absolutely zero harm and was down in under thirty seconds. In Dean's opinion, it was worthy of appaulse, but he went against it. He sat quietly, absentmindedly taking a chug of his beer before setting it back down. Unlike _some _people, he doesn't get drunk.

The nimble fingers of the kid bartender danced in Dean's vision as he swished a washcloth onto a particularly nasty stain on a wineglass. If someone ever told Dean this kid was uncoordinated he'd see them to either be blind or a liar all their miserable fucking lives. Or both.

Dean cleared his throat, knocking a knuckle on the table top as he watched the kid. "So, uhh, that was a pretty interesting tussle back there."

The kid stiffened, just barely visible to a keen eye. The kid nodded as though it never happened, attempting a casual response. "Yeah, I suppose it was."

Dean nodded in return, silently disappointed the kid hadn't said more, hadn't explained _why._

For several minutes, silence elapsed between them. The kid didn't want to discuss and Dean didn't want to push. Dean's not entirely intentional gaze at Blue Eyes grew steady, though, and he looked up at Dean, setting a glass down to pick up another.

"You want another beer?"

Dean looked at the kid bartender, then back at his nearly full bottle. If Dean had learned anything about the kid it was that, besides kickass fighting skills, he had expert observational skills. He certainly would have noticed Dean wasn't near done with his beer. Why would the kid go through the motion of asking a question he already knew the answer to?

Dean sipped at the throat of his bottle. No, what Dean had to say was something a little less trivial than that. He played along anyway, swirling around his nearly full beer. "Nope, I'm still good." The kid nodded, then reached for another glass as he put down his previous glass. It was spotless.

"You been working here a while?"

The kid stiffened a fraction of an inch but continued cleaning, rubbing the stem of the glass. He was good at hiding emotions, Dean was willing to give him that. His blue eyes flashed back up at Dean for a split-second. "Give or take a year. Probably nearing two now," he said, finishing off another wineglass.

Dean took a swallow of his beer. "It's a nice place."

"It's seen better days."

Dean nodded thoughtfully. "You know, now that I think about it, aren't you a little young to be working here? For _two _years?"

The kid bartender stiffened and for almost a full second had stopped washing altogether. He recovered, hastily sweeping the rest of the glass clean of dust or any remnants of wine. He gave a slight shrug of his shoulders. "I needed the money then. I still do now."

"Yeah, I know what you mean."

"What do you _really _want to ask me?"

He had said it naturally good-natured, yet with a bit of an edge to it. Still, overall, it wasn't something to be insulted about. In truth, he had many questions for the kid bartender. He was so intriguing, in that weird kind of way.

But that didn't mean Dean didn't falter at the question, nearly dropping his damn beer. Because really, how could he _possibly _have known his intentions, read him? It was so unusual to meet someone like this kid when he himself was so good. He had kept up the facade perfectly, just to have a small chit-chat to get a little trust going. He would have to pick up his game or he would be werewolf meat.

"Dean" he introduced himself, holding a hand out. The kid stopped washing the wineglass and looked over to Dean's hand. His eyes were ever so slightly wider than usual, as if taken by mild surprise. Wary, he took it, giving Dean a firm handshake.

"Sam."

**SNSNSNSNSN**

Alright, that's the end of the update.

_Hope everyone enjoyed it. Until next time. :)_


	4. Chapter 4

_**Luv Ya like I love my pet fish Fluffy!  
**_P.S.- I don't have a pet fish! **=O**

I have NO beta! Sorry for the inconvenience! hope u like it!

_ENJOY!_

I keep forgetting to write a Disclaimer so here goes...  
**Disclaimer:** I own neither Sam nor Dean. If I did, a heart attack would abruptly occur and I would be left for dead, drifting into a hollow, dark place where the sun doesn't shine, the moon doesn't glow, the dew of grass doesn't shimmer, and the Winchester boys aren't present. I would then- rather miraculously, really- rise from the dead and join the Winchester brothers once more. Days later after I resurrected I live on only to fall into the depths of hell once more. Depressed, I would rot in the cells of Satan for hundreds of thousands of years, waiting for the day to roam the grounds of Earth, only to meet my wonderful Winchester boys again. If only I owned the boys, claimed them as my own, then I could make them do some Winchester, supernatural magic to bring me back to the land of the living. Unfortunately, I do not own Supernatural, or the Winchester boys, so everything I said is pretty much null and void.

How was THAT for a disclaimer?

**SNSNSNSN**

_Sam. _Dean couldn't help but smile. There was something about the name, something significant he couldn't quite grasp. Like a bird perched on a tree, taking flight right before you snatch it. He considered the name, mulling it over hundreds of times in his head. He very possibly heard the name from before, he felt like he had somehow, somewhere, but he just couldn't _remember_. Dean huffed to himself. It didn't matter anyway. He's never met this Sam in his life, there is more than just _one _Sam.

After the small introduction, the questionably 19-year old kid came from behind the bar, hands in his pockets. Sam gave him a glance of recognition and went back to the wineglasses. The kid pulled up the slab and moved over to Sam, carefully inspecting the glasses. It was obvious the kid wasn't a perfectionist; he had that look about him that if he _had _found a spot of dirt he wouldn't make a fuss. More likely he would just laugh and pop Sam a good one and tell him to fix it. Neither were necessary, however, because the look on the kid's face proved enough. He had expected perfection, and that's what he got. There's wasn't a speck of dust on any of the wineglasses, and the kid wasn't the least bit surprised.

"You okay?" the black-haired boy asked as he turned to Sam. He looked concerned, like he expected Sam to break and crumble from so much pressure, like it was expected from just _anyone._

But Sam wasn't just anyone, Dean reminded himself. He responded to the boy with the same sense of calm as always, "Yeah."

The young man nodded, not entirely convinced, and Dean watched as he looked over Sam's shoulder. Sam looked at the man questioningly, then followed his line of view. The black-haired kid walked past Sam to the other side of the bar and looked below the cabinets, out of Dean's line of sight. He made a _tsk tsk tsk _sound with his throat and shook his head slowly.

"He's awake."

The venom in the kid's voice was apparent. He had a visible distaste for the man, for obvious reasons, of course. The more Dean watched the young man another, more prominent anger seemed to glow in the kid's eyes, maybe a malicious need for vengeance, a seeking of revenge. His hands were clenched into tight fists and were shaking profusely. As if the man had done something else, something before he came into the bar today. His eyes were slits with his eyebrows pointed downward. Most would translate this as anger. Why? Because that's damn sure what it was.

Sam frowned, but otherwise made no move of dissatisfaction. He set down the wineglass he had currently been sanitizing and gingerly wiped his hands with a spare cloth. Throwing it over his shoulder, he sauntered over to the kid, inspecting the big man. Dean leaned forward for a better view and saw the now conscious man's bug eyes bulging out of his sockets as he eyed the kid bartender, Sam. Sam held out a hand, grappled it onto the man's muscular shoulder, and hoisted the man to his feet in one, swift motion. He staggered ever so slightly, but regained composure relatively fast. Dean heard a low, strained growl reverberate near his ear, only to realize minutes later it was his own. He bolted his mouth shut quick, but that didn't stop Sam from looking questioningly over his shoulder.

Dean flushed, embarrassed that he got caught doing something so senseless. He was _growling_. He wasn't a damn dog, what was he thinking? Sam probably realized what he was doing before he himself did. Actually, now that he thought about it, it felt weird, not knowing what you're doing while someone else has for God knows how long. It takes some getting used to, but he didn't plan on it happening again. Hell, he was a hunter. He's _supposed _to know every _single_ move, including his own.

Dean kept up a complete wall - foreclosure, stoic, facade - the whole enchilada. Or the whole taco, depending on your level of conformity. The large man's eyes were filled with as much vengeance as the other, black-haired kid, yet his gaze wasn't focused on him, but Sam. Sam's face was anything but emotional as he eyed the man with a disinterested inspection. The man had several bruises and a cut lip, but other than that he was overall still fine, and still possibly quite deadly.

Dean was hesitant with the situation and even went so far as to moving his seat and relocating it somewhere closer to the man and Sam...and the other kid, whose name was still unknown. What if the older man just hadn't been prepared, wasn't aware of a thing called the "element of surprise". Now that he knew what Sam could do, what he was capable of, maybe he'd take him more seriously, fight up to par. No doubt, Sam was deadly as hell, but this man definitely had a few advantages that you could hardly ignore: age, size, experience, his need for superiority, and an unquestionably hurt ego, which would send any man on a rampage. All these things the man was more matured in, while Sam was unequivocally still a teenager, no matter how much his eyes told differently.

The big man took a purposely intimidating step forward, entering Sam's "personal bubble" in only half of that. Sam's upper lip curled upward in distaste and the man's, in contrast, grew into a wide grin.

"Hopefully I'll be able to fuck him up more next time," he laughed. "Literally."

Sam flinched violently, turning away to look at the floor. The jet-black haired kid grit his teeth and gave the older man a good punch across his cheek, his knuckles scraping at the skin. The man fell to the ground, hitting his head on the tabletop with a grunt. Not quite down for the count, the kid gave one solid kick to the gut, then another. The man groaned, laid his head on the hard floor, and was knocked cold. Or he just fell asleep, you never knew with these people.

When Dean turned to look at Sam next his hands had turned to fists and he was suddenly towering over the man's body, his shoulders trying to sustain the sudden emotion. Slowly, he bent to lean beside the man's ear and whispered something inaudible. Dean cursed silently to himself, leaning forward in his seat to no avail.

Not a moment later and Sam was standing back up, the black-haired boy standing beside him supportively.

"All right, Sam, let's get this guy on the street. I'm tired of seeing this guy's ass." The kid sneered, grabbing onto the man's shoulder and waited patiently for Sam to recover and grab the legs. Together, they hoisted the man onto his feet - well, kinda, he's still technically unconscious- and hauled him out the front door. They didn't _throw _him out the door, but it came in a close second. They walked a few yards away from The Braders' entrance and dumped him on the street. Even if he was still out for vengeance for whatever the hell happened, when he came to, he probably wouldn't even know which way's up. Dean smirked as he finished the last of his beer in one gulp. This had been a very eventful day. There was some ass-kicking, unconsciousness, the meeting of Sam - whom he's still quite curious about - consciousness, than unconscious once again, and some throwing-out-the-doorness. All happening at this bar in a time-span of maybe one hour. He checked his watch: 6:45. He whistled softly, it had been longer than he expected. Maybe he did more thinking than he thought.

He shrugged it off. It's not like he had a curfew, and it's not even that late. Besides, they still had to wait a few weeks until the full moon, when the werewolf made an appearance. Still, they needed to do some followup work.

Dean grunted in annoyance, swirling his empty beer bottle around.

"Problem?"

Dean looked up to see Sam back behind the bar, serving up a beer for an elderly man to his left. He hadn't heard him come back, and probably wouldn't have even known he was there until he looked up. He was getting soft.

"Haven't you asked me that before?"

Sam's lips turned upward, not a full-on smile but, then again, Dean had the feeling they didn't come around too often. He wasn't exactly Mr. Sunshine here. It was more of an _almost _smile, the sides of his lips just barely curving upward. Nevertheless, it seemed to ease Dean's heart in a way he couldn't really explain.

"I believe I have." He set the beer in front of the old man, who seemed especially slow to get his arthritic hand to wrap around the beer bottle, but seemed nonetheless thankful. "You want another beer?" Sam asked, glancing back at Dean.

"Why not?"

Dean rarely ever drank to the point of excess, and he knew his limits, except for a few occasions, which always seemed to end badly, by the way. In his lifestyle, everybody's a victim, plain as day. What matters is how you go down, and he sure as hell wasn't dying because he was drunk fighting a vampire.

Maybe he decided on another beer because he didn't want to leave. Maybe Sam was keeping him here. Maybe he would feel today as more of a victory if he got more out of Sam. He no doubt was curious of Sam's own lifestyle.

Setting a beer in front of Dean, Sam said, "I notice you've changed seats. Was there a problem with the other one or were you feeling paranoid?"

Dean gave a hearty grin. "I wanted a better view."

"Did you now? I'll remember to look for you the next time something comes up so you can get yourself a front row ticket."

Dean's smile seemed to slowly decrease in size. This couldn't have been his first fight, and it surely wouldn't be his last. What if, next time, the kid bartender wasn't so lucky? What if he was outnumbered; his kickass skills could only take him so far. What if he gets hurt and he's all alone in some deserted alley? What would happen if, one day, he didn't show up to work?

Sam noticed the look on Dean's face, the conversion from happy to sad, but seemed dazzled as to why it was there. Why would he be sad, he was probably wondering. Dean guessed that Sam saw nothing wrong with his previous comment, that it just hit a soft spot for Dean because it reminded him of something painful. When, in actuality, it was just the fact that Dean's wariness of Sam's well-being was so excessive he felt like he was going to explode.

"So do you go to school near here?" Dean had decided to the leave the issue for another time, mull things over when he's in the confines of his bed so he didn't waste time with Sam.

Sam said nothing for a long moment. He was currently drying his hands off with a paper towel, his nimble, scrawny fingers being rid of the moisture along his fingertips. "I don't go to school."

This seemed to catch Dean off guard, which was damn hard to do, leaving him in a bit of a daze. _What?_ He had previously thought every kid went to school, like it was required at something. Was working at The Braders a full time job since he didn't go to school, or was there something else he worked on outside the bar?

Sam eyed the questioning look Dean had before working up a frozen margarita. He placed whip cream on top, added a cherry, which seemed like two odd topping in Dean's opinion, and handed it to a woman to his right with sleek black hair. She seemed to have an animalistic look about her as she eyed Sam, possibly undressing him with her eyes. Dean clenched his fists, but made no further move. Her shot at anything later tonight proved ineffective as Sam kept up the same blank expression. She huffed, grabbed her frozen margarita, and dashed off, leaving the money on the bar. Sam, being his usual elegant self, picked up the money and placed it under the marble tabletop, inside a small cabinet.

Sam seemed to tune back to Dean's conversation and rested his arms on the counter. "I'm no Bill Gates. School isn't exactly an option right now."

All Dean could think to do was nod, never one for words. He paused slightly, both externally and internally, as he replayed Sam's comment, twisting it around and looking at it from different angles. By saying he was "no Bill Gates," did he mean he wasn't smart, or he wasn't rich? Because Bill Gates was sure as hell both. Seeing as how his current occupation was at a local bar, he could see how the kid bartender wasn't loaded, but never could he see him as unintelligent, it was as impossible as getting Eve away from the damn apple - fucking impossible.

Sam seemed especially modest to say even that; Sam _had _to have some faint knowledge he was above average in nearly everything - so Dean thought, at least - so why not school, too? There was this deep, uncomprehendable intelligence that lurked behind those blue eyes, and it scared Dean. Well, not necessarily _scared _Dean, but you had to wonder. What knowledge did he have that he wasn't willing to share to the world? Was he so neglected, so isolated from everyone that he kept everything he was ever aware of to himself, leaving him stuck in his own shell, alone with only his thoughts, to the point where one day he just exploded?

It was a rough concept to understand. Dean may not have many real close friends, but he had John, along with a couple other hunters he held dear to his heart - Bobby, Pastor Jim, Caleb, and Joshua were all genuinely good, reliable friends. But, never in a million years, could he consider having _nobody _to connect with. It was unfathomable, beyond the imagination. Maybe he was starting to get ahead of himself. Sam surely had the black-haired kid to talk to. He knew who the big man from earlier was so Sam must have confided in him for something.

Speaking of the kid...

"Hey, Sam, who's that kid over there? With the black hair?" Dean pointed over to a table of four, who were being served by the kid. He set their orders down, giving them their drinks and appetizers counter-clockwise.

Sam followed Dean's discrete pointing and landing his eyes on the kid Dean was talking about. He turned back to Dean, raising a perfectly curved eyebrow. "Why?"

Dean shrugged noncommittally. "No reason. Just curious."

Sam seemed to read Dean's face for what it was: innocence and curiosity. Sam nodded, turned his head back on Dean. "His name's Troy. He's...been a good friend to me. Trustworthy", Sam said, continuing to clean the counter off with a cloth. Dean nodded thoughtfully as Sam replaced the old man's empty beer bottle for a full one.

He ambled back in front of Dean as Dean took a swig of his beer. He placed his elbows on the counter and rested his neck in his hands, massaging the back of his neck but keeping his gaze on Dean.

"I have a question."

"Shoot," Dean said a mite to quickly.

Sam's face remained thoughtful as he looked into Dean's eyes. He seemed to study Dean for a long time, but all Dean could think to do was look back. He looked into the deep, dark recesses of the kid's mind. It was unfathomable, bewildering, mystifying. All the adjectives that translated to "What the fuck does that even mean?" An enigma of a life, an explicable, unsolvable puzzle.

"Who are you?"

It wasn't meant in an accusing way. It was spoken softly, curiously. Sam's eyes showed defeat and, once again, confusion. Dean watched the clouds of mystification dance around, gleaming visibly in his eyes.

"What do you mean?"

Sam opened his mouth, then shut it, contemplating his words more than what was usually required. Dean watched as Sam broke eye contact for a split second, before maintaining it again.

"Four principles to reading people: establish the baseline, recognize patterns, challenge and refine your assumptions, and above all, make the decision. All humans seem the same, no matter what angle you read them." Sam's heated gaze scrutinized even Dean as he fervently pushed down the urge to squirm in his seat. "You're different."

It was as if Sam was engraining his need for answers on his flesh, under his bones, in his _brain_. He was the one person Sam didn't know _everything _about, and he was curious about Dean, intrigued. He wanted to know his story, what made him different, what made him stand out from the rest, that he was a _hunter._

Dean knew one of the first rules of being a hunter was keeping your identity unknown. Interact with no one, trust no one, say nothing. A mere shadow. Dean didn't know positively that he could trust Sam, but he was willing to interact, talk, with him. Interacting doesn't mean trusting, and it sure as hell doesn't mean telling the truth.

Dean shrugged, taking another sip of his beer. "I'm just your average Joe."

Sam saw right through it, Dean knew, but accepted it. He nodded, as if he _believed _Dean, and got up off the counter he had been leaning on. He turned his head, looking up at the small clock that hung just above the front door. 7:31. Sam let escape past his lips a small, nearly inaudible sigh.

He trudged behind the bar and disappeared behind the large block of wood, containing several kinds of alcoholic beverages - it _was _a bar, afterall. He came back seconds later wearing a black wornout hoodie. Dean heard the kid, who he recently found to be Troy, yell a distanced "See you tomorrow". Sam adjusted the slightly too large hoodie, calling out an "I'll do my best".

"If you need help just call me," came the voice again. Troy stuck his head out from behind the bar before Sam could leave, his gaze dead serious. "Not kidding."

Sam nodded before traipsing over to the front door, messing with the hood of his jacket as he kicked the door open lightly with his foot.

Just before he left, he turned back to Dean.

"Nice talking with you, Dean."

**SNSNSNSNSNSN**

_Insight would definitely help with this chapter; I would LOVE to know for future reference!_

It's 2:30 in the morning, I'm only half-coherent, and quite potentially entirely unconscious. As such, I'm going to have to turn in. I hope you enjoyed it. :]


	5. Chapter 5

_**Luv Ya like I love my pet fish Fluffy!  
**_P.S.- I don't have a pet fish! **=O**

Unfortunately, I have no beta. The inconvenience is all yours.

**ENJOY**

Twenty minutes after Sam had left, Dean placed his money down on the counter, which Troy had picked up in Sam's stead, and walked out the door. It was cold outside and all he had on was a long-sleeve shirt and jeans. The night chill flew past him in a gust of wind. He shivered. When he had arrived earlier that day it was nearing the sweltering point, to the excess he wanted to just strip off his shirt, damn the pedestrians, but now, now was just cruel. The temperature had dropped at least 30 degrees and, at this rate, he would be a popsicle.

Quickly, he walked into the parking lot ahead of him, which was nearly empty, and headed straight for the Impala. In the confines of his baby, he turned the temp up and headed for home.

He arrived at the motel mere minutes later, now that he knew the direction to The Braders by heart. Now that he saw the exterior of the motel once more, it wasn't as grand and luxurious as he had remembered.

He entered the motel and his newly formed opinion did not change. The plush sofas were of faded colors, not the bright red he had remembered them to be early this morning. The chandelier was dustier than he recalled, the gray splotches nearly engulfing the increasingly small object. He sighed, at least the beds aren't made of rocks, like he _did _remember from previous motels - oh yes, he remembered that quite clearly. When all the dust settled, none of the fungus truly mattered. Sure, personal hygiene was great, but so was a good night's sleep; that's what kept you up the next day, and the day after that. He could settle for a mediocre table, hell, he could settle for a wobbly table as bent as a tower of playing cards. If it broke down when he set his coffee cup down, then he'd just use the floor, or John's head.

After he had gotten onto the elevator, he pressed "4", then hurriedly got off in search for 412. Those elevators intimidated Dean to the point of...hell, he didn't even know. Those box-shaped methods of vertical transportation were just begging you to get on it, so they could suck you in and never spit you back out, like you were some piece of meat. As a method of luring, they had the big shiny buttons that _everyone_ has the irrational urge to press. You're heading for the elevator, you see a man reaching to press the "up" button and you're just standing there thinking "Oh_ hell_ no". Now _that _was a rational thought. Doesn't matter if you're young or old, black or white, male or female, you _wanted _to press that damn button.

Off the buttons subject, Dean knocked on the door rapidly four times. John answered the door, swinging it open for Dean's entrance. He stepped in; aside from the newspaper clippings on every square inch of the wall, the notes all over both beds, the duffel bags in one corner of the room, and three different coffee cups dispersed around the vicinity, everything was as he had left it.

"You've been gone awhile. Everything go okay?"

Scooting aside a large stack of handwritten notes, he plopped onto the bed. He was right, they weren't hard as a rock. They were hard as a damn boulder.

"Yeah, it was fine. And no, I didn't get in a fight." John nodded thoughtfully as he grabbed at a note filled with messy, hastily written scrawlings and began reading it over. John had grown accustomed to Dean's hatred for research. It was in his genes to kick monster ass, but settling in for a good read, definitely not his thing. Of course, if John told him to do it, he'd sit his ass down and _read. _The likelihood, however, of being forced to read something his mind would forget after a day's past, was rather slim. He set down the piece of paper, almost reverently, and sat next to Dean.

"Is there something you want to say?"

Of course Dean should have expected him to know. They have been there for each other all their lives. They live and thrive off each other, and Dean could read John just as well as John could read him. It was a given. The fact that John could tell there was something on Dean's mind when he had worked so hard to hide it, it had to mean something.

The thing was, Dean didn't want him to know about Sam, not quite yet, not when he was so far from solving the inconceivable mystery that was Sam. He wanted to learn more himself, he wanted to be the fortunate one who knew about the kid so he could go off, _later_, and spread the word to his father. He felt weirdly connected to the kid, somehow, and every now and then he'd have the urge to call him Sammy, not Sam. At the bar, no one had called him by the more adolescent name, but it just seemed to suit him so well. Not only that, but he wanted to get to know him, step into the stranger's shoes and walk around in them for a day or two.

Dean shrugged indifferently, refusing to make eye contact. "Not really."

John didn't seem to appreciate the two-worded response. His eyebrows creased, the tips of his ears reddening, as he looked downward on Dean. Dean feigned innocence as he stared questioningly at John.

"What? Nothing really happened today. I mean, there was a bar fight, but-"

"A fight? Dean, there was a _fight, a_nd you didn't think that was something I needed to know? You could've gotten hurt." The seering fire from John's eyes burned into Dean's as his heated gaze all but melted him away. In truth, the fight shouldn't have been important to John, and there was definitely no reason to get worked up about it. It was't even directly related to Dean. He wasn't even _in _the damn thing. It was just this bigass guy and...Sam.

Of course, everything seemed to revolve around that kid today.

"Dad, I wasn't in the fight. And besides, it lasted like, twenty seconds. That kid kicked ass." Dean had considered changing from "kid" to "guy" but it was too late mid-sentence. Besides, if his father was in the mood to have a fit, he'd get pissed with just about everything.

He probably had a bad day.

"A _kid? _Dean, there was a kid in that bar? And you didn't try and defend him? Damn Dean, what the _hell_?" By this point, John was edging to the point of screaming, his face red-hot with flushed anger and barely controlled anger. What was his problem? This was _definitely _not something Dean was used to getting in trouble for. Did he not hear him when he said the kid _kicked ass?_

"Oh my God, Dad. The kid held his own just fine from what I could tell."

"How old was he?"

Dean pondered for a minuscule moment. The kid was really fucking young, in his teens, but his eyes told him to be so much older. Yet, that was irrelevant, the eyes don't show age, in the kid's case, just horrific experiences and hardships. And, without looking at the eyes, Sam's baby face showed him to be anything but old.

"Sixteen, maybe 17." He gave a minute shrug to emphasize his point that he didn't exactly ask the kid.

John stared disbelievingly at Dean, as if he were wondering what had happened to his son. Maybe he was.

"Dean. How could you not defend that kid? What if he had gotten hurt?" The disbelief had once again turned to anger. "How dare you-"

Dean had had enough. More than enough. He grabbed his jacket off the floor dramatically, strode past John as he stood there, temporarily stunned. He eyed Dean like he was asking, praying, that the gods smite him, use him as a sacrifice, anything. No bolt of lightning or ring of fire came for him. Dean burst out the door of the motel room as he walked passed a family of four, all smiles on their faces. He huffed passed them and, instead of using that infuriatingly devious elevator, took the stairs.

With each step, he felt the reign on his anger lessen. The control he had over his emotions at that moment was embarassingly thin. How _dare _he even _think _he wouldn't protect Sam? Hell, Dean was beginning to think he'd jump in front of a bus to save that kid, and, even if he's been with John all his life, he couldn't seem to get past his anger to see that. If had had even a _glimpse _of what Dean felt about Sam he would've understood it was no playing matter.

Shrugging on his jacket, he walked outside, instantly hit by the night air. Chilled to the bone, he could feel John's gaze on him from the window, but he disregarded it. He couldn't deal with him. Not now. Walking briskly, he took a left on the sidewalk and decided a nice, long walk was in order, clear his thoughts a little.

Was John right? Should he have joined the fight, protected him? Yes, yes, Sam didn't need the extra helping hand, but just as a safety net, if he were to falter, stray off the mark, he'd be there. If anything to at least make Sam feel like _someone _cared about him. But instead, Dean chose the easy way out, let Sam fight for himself while he watched on the sidelines as if he were about to make the winning shot. It didn't matter if he was sitting right beside him, he had left him stranded.

Dean bit his teeth into his bottom lip as he trudged on. The cold was burning his face, but he paid no attention, his thoughts on Sam. All thoughts on Sam.

The sidewalk he was on passed by a small, grungy alleyway. As he edged closer to it, he could hear sounds something like a grunt. Maybe it was his imagination, just the wind ricocheting off the trash can lid. Then there was a muted version of a fist making harsh contact with something, or someone. The sounds were muffled, as if they had turned down the volume a couple notches. Dean heard it nonetheless, and it sent him sprinting to the alleyway.

Hastily, but still using his common stealth, he peeked around the corner into the alley. There had to be at _least_ ten of them, all of muscular build and the size of a gorilla, gathered in a circle looking down on something in the middle of their offensive formation. Dean stuffed his hand in his jacket pocket and instantly felt relief wash over him. He had left the gun in his pocket from the last hunt. Thanking the Big Guy upstairs, he kept his right hand tucked in his pocket, his finger resting lightly over the trigger.

"Hey!"

All the men turned to face Dean, some faces stricken with surprise but most were full of hunger, a vicious ferocity that made King Kong whimper at the sight of it. Dean stayed calm, whipping out the gun in a flash and aiming it in the general direction of them _all_. In truth, the gun wouldn't stop them from killing him, his finger only moved so fast, which was pretty damn fast, but the look in Dean's eyes, the look of that unknowing violence, that was another story entirely. The feral gleam of hatred in their eyes dissipated at the sight of the gun _and _Dean, somewhat looking like frightened baby monkeys. They all had their way of dealing with the situation at hand, and Dean respected that. They all did something: cursing, screaming, punching their neighbor, spitting in each other's faces, but they all, at one point, came to the same decision.

They ran like fucking hell.

At a second's notice, they scrambled down the alleyway, tripping over each other's feet as they made way for the corner. Fortunately for them, it wasn't a dead end, or they wouldn't have had a prayer of escape.

He tucked his gun swiftly back in his jacket pocket and, in a sudden burst of speed, sprinted into the alleyway, almost instantly finding what those bastards had been toying with. His heart fell to his stomach as he dropped to his knees. Precariously, he dumped the contents of his stomach in one heave, surprised his heart didn't go with the vomit now so neatly placed on the floor.

He wiped the sleeve of his jacket on his mouth, the aftertaste a foul smell of today's lunch. He turned his head to face Sam, _his _Sam, lying unconscious on the ground in a heap of blood. Hesitantly, Dean rested his hand on the curve of Sam's cheekbone, rubbing it soothingly as he stared at his lax form. He wasn't wearing a shirt, revealing slowly forming bruises that were already a purplish hue. Some stood out less from the others, older, more faded bruises glued to his lean but muscular frame. There was a long trailing of blood going across his neck, reaching around the back until it formed a complete circle around his neck. Dean looked at it feverishly. What could have possibly done that? He looked around, almost frantically, until his eyes rested on a thin chain, tied together to form a circle the same size as Sam's neck. There was a tail at the end of the chain, which led Dean to suggest that Sam had been _dragged_.

On the other side of the alley, a whip was lying on the floor, neatly folded up and tied with a rubber band to keep it intact. That, too, had bloodstains on it. Dean's breath caught in his throat as he gently lifted Sam's torso, just enough for Dean to inspect his back. He gasped as he eyed the protruding crisscrosses on his back. They were everywhere; jagged, tortorous lines of red on every square inch of his back. Choking back a sob, he lay Sam's body protectively back on the cold, hard floor.

Next to the chain lay a chainsaw, plugged into the wall of the alleyway. It seemed awkwardly placed, but it was there nonetheless. The chainsaw was blood stained, red droplets falling off the tip, hitting the ground and still managing to remain mute.

Maybe _he_ was mute.

The growling noises escaping Dean's mouth told him otherwise, passing through his lips and coming out with pure, explosive rage. He reminded himself of a lion, a very, _very _deadly lion. He could kill a _million _innocents, but he wouldn't give a damn, not now. He was faintly aware of the blood trickling from his bottom lip and down him chin, but he couldn't bring himself to care. Slowly, dodging the line of blood located around Sam's neck, he placed two fingers just above it. His heart beats were faint, but they were there. Throwing off his jacket, he placed it on Sam, not even feeling the chill roll down his spine.

Cautiously, he lifted the kid into his arms bridal style, only distantly aware of the slight stirring in his arms.

**SNSNSNSN**

Hope u guys liked that! I didn't really _know _that was how it would play out, but my fingers came up with the idea, not me. If you like it, thank my fingers for the wonderful progress they made.

Also, I'm curious what you guys think will happen in the future of this story. I already have the idea clear in my head, but if you DO decide to review, I wouldn't mind if you put a few extra words on what you expect the outcome will be.

_HOPE U ENJOYED IT!_


	6. Chapter 6

_**Luv Ya like I love my pet fish Fluffy!  
**_P.S.- I don't have a pet fish! **=O**

hope u like it!

**ENJOY!**

Dean trudged on, oblivious to the cold air hitting his face and ruffling under his thin apparel. He felt nothing, nothing except rage. A fury raged inside him so satanic not even God himself had the capability of smiting him without Him being smited right fucking back. Because they had messed with _his _Sammy. They would pay for their mistake. The kid was an innocent.

Or was he innocent? Maybe Sam had attacked that big man at the bar before, so all he could do in return was fight back, only this time drawing the short end of the stick. It could be those men were related to the big man at the bar, and exacted revenge on Sammy. They had to be so warped, so devious, to have targeted Sam, nonetheless in such large quantities so he didn't even have a flying shit of a chance, even if he could kick Godzilla's ass with his middle finger.

The more likely theory was that it was the man that had victimized _Sam. _The man had strutted into The Braders like he owned the damn place and threatened Sam, belittled him, until the only thing Sam _could _do was fight. Were those men in the alley so deviated that they twisted it all out of context, to where their friend was the victim? Even if the big man hadn't begun the transition, there was no reason to beat Sam senseless. He had wounded the man at the bar, not slaughtered him.

Sam stirred slightly in his arms. He looked down to see the kid blinking his eyes slowly, tediously, for a few seconds. He looked around, eyes glassy and unfocused. No more than a second later he became aware of the movement of being lifted in midair. He turned to Dean, his expression skeptical and dangerous. As Sam recognized Dean, his demeanor changed swiftly. He just stared wide-eyed at him, his big blues eyes looking up at Dean deplorably. It hit Dean like a tidal wave, hitting him straight on with nothing to stop the current. His eyes told _everything_. The utter monstrosities he's dealt with in his life- or so Dean had concluded- were just piling up, the stopping point of this madness not even near the horizon. Dean sympathized with him. At the bar, he had proven himself to be so strong, so above everyone else, and yet, here he lie in Dean's arms, nearly dead to the world. Dean felt the need to bang his head against the wall, _multiple_ times, just to get the kid's face out of his head.

"Please," Sam licked his lips, "put me down." His voice was laced with stress, _pain, _and his voice had cracked at the first word. Dean broke away from Sam's engaging gaze, looking up to watch the stars. He couldn't let the kid see him cry, not like this. Not after everything's Sam been through.

"I'm going to take you some place safe. Some place where no one can hurt you." Despite everything, his voice betrayed everything he was trying so hard to keep hold of: stability. In all his years of experience he had learned to create a mask for himself, inhabiting the perfect demeanor, his trump card. He could easily remain stoical, that's why he had wanted to become a policeman back in the day. Yet, despite it all, he couldn't keep his emotions in check. He'd sure as hell do his best, though. Even with Sam in his current state, he had to stay calm. Not for himself, but for Sam. He's a hunter, he's seen far worse.

Yet, at the same time, he's never seen anything like it.

"Please. I have to...my brother."

Dean stopped walking for a split second. He just stood, transfixed with Sam, his face containing bewilderment and curiosity. Abruptly, he was back in motion, continuing his walk in the park with baby Sam.

After a few moments of uncomfortably awkward silence, as if with a mind of it's own, his eyes drifted back to Sam. Dean inwardly cringed as he met the kid's eye. Dean just watched him, rather intrigued. So far, he hadn't known shit about the kid, and finding out he had a sibling was a matter of interest to him. Dean offered a small smile.

"What's his name?"

Dean decided to entertain the thought of Sam having a brother. He wanted to know as much as he could about Sam and was going on everything he could get his hands on, no matter how small.

Sam's tiny but genuine smile could have lit up a room. "Jacob." His face fell.

With nothing to really go on, but still worrying anyway, Dean's thoughts suddenly turned darkside. Why would he need to see his brother, Jacob? Was in trouble, or did he just have to feed him for dinner?

"What's the rush, kid?"

Sam bit his lip, and turned his head into Dean's chest, hiding any and all further emotions. Dean said nothing, hoping the kid would fill the space with some belated answer.

He didn't.

Dean went against his better judgement to keep pressing Sam and left it at that. If he had something to tell Dean, he would. The kid was stubborn, but he was smart as hell, too. If there was something life-threatening in any way, he wouldn't be close-mouthed for long.

Sam sighed. "You can put me down now."

The effort the kid put into saying those few words was extinguishable. If Sam thought he was going to put him down, he better think again.

Dean smiled ruefully. "Nope."

Sam did something of a pout, an act Dean considered below him. He must have been pretty fucking desperate to sulk. Nonetheless, Dean's smile widened, which even put a _small _smile on Sam's face as well. Just as before, it fell, creating a mask of his own, rendering his expression completely indecipherable.

Damn, he was good.

Dean took another look at the kid's face. If he was in any physical pain - which, in a way, he hoped he was, the alternative being _far _worse - he didn't show it. There were no etches in the kid's facade that showed any signs of distress. The blank demeanor he put up moments ago was to hide any emotional debuts, but as far a he could tell, it wasn't used for injuries. Which led Dean to one of two conclusions. One, Sam one tough cookie of a teenager with badass skills in the art of deception. Two, his body had become numb and Sam was not yet aware of his slow annihilation.

Definitely the former.

For what seemed like hours Dean had followed that damn concrete path surrounded by lilacs and roses, leading straight to his and his father's motel room. A.K.A.- the yellow brick road. He followed it eagerly, like a child yearning for a chocolate chip cookie, the small boy in his arms a constant reminder that he had to get home, quick. Sam's eyes were beginning to droop, whether from exhaustion he wasn't sure. The blood, for the most part, had stopped flowing, but there was a good bit of a damage to work on and he wanted to get it finished. What the plan after that was, he wasn't sure. He didn't know if Sam would mind sharing a bed with him, or if he'd just take the kid home. It was a decision Dean would probably have to make when the time came, because, if he knew Sam like he thought he did, he would insist that he was just fine, in no more need of assistance, and could just head on home.

"Stay with me, Sam, we're almost home."

As if on cue, Sam's eyes drifted shut but, this time, they didn't open.

"Sam!"

He set Sam on the hard ground, cursing with such a colorful variety that would put Robin Goodfellow to shame. He looked Sam over thoroughly, not really sure what to do. In situations like these, his mind would go on auto-pilot, take over until things were under control and at breathing level. But, unlike other times, it wasn't working. At all. It was as if his mind erased itself and all he was doing was looking through a book with empty pages. He wondered what John would do in his position. It seemed easy enough, but he couldn't get his brain to _work. _What if he lost him? Sam, of all people? What if the kid died right then because of Dean's indecisive carelessness? What if the kid was in some sort of coma because Dean had run out of time? What if he stopped asking questions about what to do and just _did _something?

Too late.

A swift punch hurdled in front of his face and connected with his jaw, instantly hurling him to the ground. He swore on the Budda's belly he heard a cracking sound when the fist connected but put the thought aside until further investigation_. _His gaze was blurry, unfocused. He knew he wasn't crying, that was a sure fact. But why couldn't he see? Oh, that's right, he got punched in the face.

He grasped his head, shaking it viciously, only to give himself a killer headache. He swore, opening his eyes to see a figure standing over him. The figure held a stance of confidence, strength, but his brain couldn't register what they connected to. His foggy vision began to fade and he saw the figure with a new pair of eyes. It was Sam, his Sam, hovering over him with a look of regret, regret and pain. His eyebrows scrunched together. Sam bent down with effort, his body stiff as it pulled on his multiple injuries.

"I'm so sorry about this," Sam said, sounding genuinely apologetic.

He watched the hand form into a tight fist as it bee lined straight for his head.

_What the hell just happened?_

His last coherent thought.

**SNSNSNSN**

School's started back up, unfortunately, and that means softball has too! AAhhh! Just kidding, softball's awesome. It's just that it's _every single day _and it takes up so much time_. _And I don't even play in the games because I'm a freshman ='(  
It gets rough, but hey, that's life.

No beta, blah blah blah yadda yadda yadda, u got the drill

If you havent had Spring Break I wish you well on another grueling week of school and/or work. Hang in there. Soon, it'll be Easter break. WOOT.

I believe I have a poll on my profile page but im not sure...something completely random, but kinda fun...i think. oh well, u can check it out if you want. Your choice =)

**Reviews are addicting to me like honey is addicting to Winny the Pooh. TRANSLATION: REVIEW!**


	7. Chapter 7

_**Luv Ya like I love my pet fish Fluffy!  
**_P.S.- I don't have a pet fish! **=O**

**DISCLAIMER: I do not own those beautiful Winchester boys. If I did…oh my...**

**ENJOY!**

Dean awoke to a blinding light, threatening to pierce through his skull, nearly searing through his brain and out the back of his head. What the _hell? _His head felt like someone had set it all on fire, but he couldn't move to do something about it. Aching all over, he turned his head away from the light, lightening the sweltering pain only slightly. Satisfied, he squinted his eyes, just barely able to make out the small desk in front of him and, beyond that, a twin bed. On the wall beside the bed there were newspaper articles strewn about in no particularly organized manner. They, along with not-so-neat handwritten notes, were stapled to the wall, proving to be all slightly disordered. It was their apartment room. How he had gotten there he had no idea. _Was I drunk? Did Dad have to come get me? Oh _shit_._

The painful brightness of the room was obliterated with a small flick. He could see freely now without wanting to eat his own face, so he took advantage of it. He looked over to see John, walking back over after he had turned off the lights, thank _God _for that. John never wore his heart on his sleeve but it was no question that he was concerned. His eyebrows were creased, the wrinkles under his eyes looking a few years baggier than the usual. The lines of his mouth seemed thicker, deeper, making him look a little animalistic. Not animalistic as in ferocious and ass-kicking cheetah, but more of an old-aged chimpanzee that had left his only banana at the circus.

When he reached the bed, John's eyes shown with relief as he looked his son in the eye. He must have been able to tell Dean was confused; he smiled softly, a look of amusement glittering his features. It disappeared quickly. "How are you feeling, Dean?"

Dean considered it. Without the lights on, his head didn't feel like it weighed a ton, and, even though it was daylight outside, the curtains were fully closed. No problems there. He flexed his arms, twisting them back and forth, this way and that. A little sore, but no real pain. His jaw hurt, a slow ache filling in his mouth. He investigated further. He maneuvered his entire lower half of his face, checking the location the real pain was located in. It wasn't broken, and the worst was probably a bad bruise. Nevertheless, it hurt like a bitch.

"I'll be okay" he said, finally concluding his analysis. John nodded, already expecting that exact answer. Of course he had already investigated Dean's injuries himself, he was _John_. He knew he'd be fine before Dean even woke up. But that never stopped a father from his duties, Dean thought.

He shifted, hanging his legs over the side of the bed. With one heave, he lifted himself off the bed and stood erect. Images from the other day came flooding back to him. It had been _Sam _that did it. The aching of his jaw, the pain in his head. Everything rushed to his head at once, and he resisted the urge to clamp his hands on his head, only hoping to free the restless spirits of the past. He squeezed his eyes shut, tight. He had carried Sam, the destination being the apartment room. He was going to get his wounds checked, but something had happened. Sam snapped. The attack had taken Dean completely off-guard, which had led him to the condition he was in presently.

_I'm so sorry about this. _Sam had said that. Why would you say that to the person you're about to shit on? Had he done it in denial, as if trying to convince himself it wasn't his fault? That he hadn't wanted any of it, but was in no position to refuse?

The situation was mindboggling. Sam could have been fooling him from the very beginning for all he knew. He had used Dean's naivety, which he usually was _not, _against him. He made Dean believe him, become curious, fascinated with him. It angered Dean. He clenched his fists and furrowed his hair. Who the hell was he? Earlier yesterday, they had taken a step forward, but after last night they had taken ten steps back. Everything Sam had told him had the possibility of being a lie.

Even if that were the case, the pieces still weren't fitting together. Why would Sam lie to him, he didn't even know him, nor Dean him. It made no sense.

"I want to know what happened."

Dean, spooked, whirled around, a hand already edging for the knife under the pillow, to see John holding out a cup of coffee for him. He calmed, taking it gratefully, but he knew he didn't have time for the discussion with his father. Besides, how could he explain to his father that everything yesterday was his own fault? Whether Sam's intentions were innocent or not was irrelevant. He had gotten lazy, had stopped constantly discreetly looking over his shoulder for predators. He had gotten obsessed with the mystery that was Sam, and got engulfed in stupidity and anxiousity.

"Listen, Dad, it's not that big of a deal. I promise I'll tell you later, okay?" After taking several sips of coffee, Dean set down his cup and looked around the room. "But right now, I've really gotta do something." Spotting his jacket, he snatched it off the floor and pulled his arms through it.

John didn't seem pleased with the idea. Once again, his eyebrows were creased, more downward this time. Dean looked him in the eye. He had to do this. He had to know why Sam had done it and, if Sam really was bad, he couldn't just stand around doing nothing about it. He had to be prepared to kill Sam if it came down to it. But if anyone did it, it'd be him.

John's hateful expression lessened. The gleam in Dean's eyes spoke more than words ever could. He nodded. "Fine. Just be careful, okay?" He looked like he wanted to say more then stopped himself, shutting his mouth tight in a grim line.

Dean nodded curtly, rushing for the door.

-SNSN-

Parking the Impala, he sat in front of The Braders for a long moment. What if Sam was in there? What would he do? What would he say? But what was worse, what if he _wasn't _there_? _Dean banged his palm on the steering wheel. Sam had had so many injuries and some were located in more exposed places than others. If people saw his wounds, he'd possibly scare off customers, making them think something illogical like they were "next" or something.

After plucking up enough courage to open the car door, he slid into The Braders, his eyes instinctively directing themselves to the bar. As far as he could tell, there was no Sam. He cursed under his breath. Troy, the black-haired kid, was there though, talking with one of the customers. Troy didn't look happy, and the customer looked kind of scared. He was nearly the same age as Troy, probably a little older, his dark hair flat against his skull. His short and stocky was oddly familiar to Dean, with a bit of stubble going across his chin to the tips of his ears. They leaned against the bar, each man on either side, as they spoke, their voices hushed, nobody else in their vicinity for at least ten yards. Did they get privacy out of luck or demand?

After a second, Dean decided the former. How suspicious would that be if something told you to "Stay the fuck away so I can talk business"? Not too practical.

He stealthily crept up to the bar, sitting down quietly on a stool near Troy and the man. They were, of course, oblivious to his presence.

"He looked rough as hell, man. What happened?"

"I have no idea, I called him earlier this morning. He's not telling me anything." Troy said, looking at the customer.

"Is he coming to work today?"

"I don't know. He works the night shift today, so we'll have to see."

Dean paused. Were they talking about Sam? Did Troy, along with the other man, know about Sam's condition? He suddenly felt extremely nervous, waiting for one of them to start up another conversation on Sam. He saw a salt and pepper shaker and started rolling them around on the marble tabletop.

From the corner of his eye, he saw the man lean closer into Troy, and he had to strain his ears to hear.

"Do we know what happened to Jacob?" The young man looked at Troy expectantly, hesitantly. A drop of sweat glistening down the side of his forehead, slowly rolling down his face. If anything else, Troy's face looked pained. He also was beginning to sweat. It wasn't obvious, both were fairly discrete, but it was there for the world to see.

"Yeah. Not nearly as bad as Sam, though. Just a few bruises and a burn across his arm."

Dean heard the young man, who's name was still unidentifiable, curse. He watched as his hands curled into fists. His thumbs were inside his fists, proving to Dean his fighting wasn't anything superior, not like Sam's.

"Damn it. We should've done something, Troy."

"Like what? What the hell do you expect us to do? Kill them?" Troy's expression softened, a fierce sorrow seeming to overcome him. "Besides, we both made Sam a promise. No interfering."

The man hung his head low, but seemed to accept it. Whatever they were talking about, Troy had won this battle. The young man stood, resigned, and headed for the exit. "See you later, Troy."

"Right back at ya."

He did a quick salute to Troy then left The Braders.

Dean sat in silence as the information sunk in. Even with some clarification from Troy and the young man, not all the pieces fit together to make the puzzle; it lay there, in his mind, an incomplete mystery, like Sam. It felt like a punch in the gut and Dean wanted to hurl. Only someone so devious could do any harm to a kid like Sam. Just yesterday, everyone in the bar was checking out his ass. Everybody loved Sammy, and not only because he was fun to look at. To think that someone could do something like that to Sammy.

And this Jacob kid, Sam's brother. Was he being threatened by the same person that Sam was, or was it a completely different threat? Dean didn't know how he'd ever get the answers. It felt like he was on another hunt.

"What you need?"

Dean looked up at Troy. His black hair swooped in front of his left eye, blocking the vision of that eye completely. Damn, how the hell could he see?

"I'll have a beer."

Getting out a beer, seconds later, Troy set a bottle in front of him.

"Thanks."

Troy nodded curtly. He took hold of a few wineglasses and started washing them as Sam had done previously. They looked used since yesterday, wine remnants stuck on the bottom of the glass.

A shrilled ringtone rang through the air. Dean reached for his own phone before recognizing his own played Metallica's "Enter Sandman", nothing like the monotonous, one-toned ring from this phone.

Troy put down the wineglass to search his pockets, slipping his phone out. He flipped it open and checked Caller ID, his expression puzzled as he answered the call. "Hello?"

Based on his greeting, Dean assumed Troy didn't know the caller or the phone number and Dean waited impatiently as the person on the other line spoke. Troy flinched like he'd been hit, his voice threaded thick with anger. "Fuck off, asshole, none of your goddamn business."

Silence again as the unknown caller responses. This time, Troy slammed his fist onto the marble table top, the thud loud and intimidating. "You even _think _about getting _near _him I'll kill you, I swear to God."

Several long, agonizing moments later passed and his expression changed drastically, appearing completely horrified. Dean's heart skipped a beat as his voice was layered thick with outrage and repulsion, "You're disgusting."

After another moment, Troy opened his mouth to speak, stopped, listened another moment, then spoke in a loud voice, "Hey, no-". He stopped, moving the phone from his ear and looking at the screen. He cursed, flipping the phone closed harshly and stuffing it back in his pocket with unstable hands.

"Everything okay?"

Troy jumped, turning in abrupt surprise in Dean's direction. Dean noticed the smallest of shudders racking through his body, the remnants of the conversation still playing through him. Dean's worry leapt up ten notches, his stomach tied in a tight, nervous knot.

Troy nodded uncertainly, his back leaning against the back of the table top, his body facing Dean. "Yeah," he shivered, running a shaky hand over his face, "Yeah, everything's fine, it's just, just…my friend, he's uh." He shrugged shakily, "Just having some trouble is all."

With that, Troy nodded timidly, standing back on his own feet and serving the customer that had walked up to the bar a minute ago.

Dean nodded with just as much nervous uncertainty as Troy. What the hell does he say to that to keep the conversation going? Even more so, what does he say without sounding like the nosiest ass in the history of nosy asses?

Dean wiped his now sweaty hands on the thighs of his jeans. He should lay off on the interrogation progress for now. He had to. Asking Troy questions about more detailed information he shouldn't even know would be nothing but counter-productive. If he asked anything relevant to Sam Troy may shut down. He wouldn't make friendly talk with him; instead, he'd get suspicious as hell. Why would a stranger like Dean know about a seclusive kid that rarely branched out and made friends? If he ever got to a dead end on the Sam Investigation, he'd need asking Troy as an open option. But if that would be the case, then he'd have to make amiable chat with him, get to know him, become friends.

That could wait.

So he held off, resorting to picking at the beer bottle label with his fingernail. Troy had said Sam worked the night shift and it was only 10:45 in the morning. It's okay, he was more than willing to wait. He sat there, occasionally taking a swig of his beer, as he watched the clock intently.

**SNSNSNSNSN**

Alright, so there you go! Hopefully it wasn't too boring without Sam, but it had to be put in there, just to get you some background, maybe some logical theories on the future plot. Anyway, there will be Sam in the next chapter so don't fret.

_HOPE U ENJOYED IT!_

Just so you know, I really like getting reviews. Just in case you were wondering. ;)


	8. Chapter 8

_**Luv Ya like I love my pet fish Fluffy!  
**_P.S.- I don't have a pet fish! **=O**

**ENJOY!**

Dean sat in the Impala, eating his dinner consisting of a cheeseburger, fries, and a Coke. His initial plan had been to wait at The Braders until the kid showed up.

He should've known better to think he was a _waiting _kind of person.

So instead he'd done a little searching for little Sammy, walking the streets and alleys for hours in hopes of the boy, maybe even a hint to where he'd be. Hours later with no luck, his stomach's dislike of the effort was revealed and he was forced to go to the nearest McDonalds for a refuel.

It was nearly 6:15 now and he wasn't sure when Sam's night shift was supposed to start. He was feeling anxious, his head nearly spinning out of control from the idea of seeing Sam again. His injuries had been bad. Did Sam treat them properly? It's not like he _should _be able to at his age. Or did he just leave them as they were? Did he let them get infected? Dean's hands were shaking as he took a bite of his burger.

He was nervous, though he'd never admit it, even under torture. What if Sam recognized him and ran away before he got the chance to say a word? That idea frightened him, more than he'd like to admit. If he saw Dean there, at The Braders, waiting for him, he'd think he was in some sort of trouble which, in truth, was very possibly correct. He'd run and may not come back for weeks. Dean didn't have that kind of time, what with the werewolf and researching preluding it, not that he did that much researching to begin with.

If he let himself be seen by Sam in The Braders it could ruin everything. But at the same time, if he never spoke to Sam, what would the point be? He had to confront him, get the necessary information out of him. Did he knock Dean out to find Jacob, his brother, or was he embarrassed that he had been found so vulnerable, and wanted to prove he could still kickass whilst injured.

Dean couldn't stand it anymore. He threw the rest of his food on the passenger seat and sped off to The Braders.

Minutes later, he arrived in the parking lot and got hastily out of the Impala. The anxiety overwhelming him was sending butterflies down his stomach and through his lungs. Would he be able to make the necessary moves if worst came to worst? Would he be able to hurt Sam, hurt him if he turned out to be a bad person?

He told himself he could, that he was the hunter, not Sam, and he wasn't afraid to do so for the greater good. But, when it came to Sam, who really knew?

Entering The Braders, he saw no sight of Sam and, for a moment, he didn't know how he was supposed to take that. Was it a good thing that Sam wasn't here, or should he be disappointed? Had he been subconsciously hoping Sam wouldn't be here, so he wouldn't have to found out the truth?

Though Sam was out of sight, that didn't mean there weren't other people he didn't know. The young man that had been talking with Troy earlier today was situated at the bar, once again making conversation with Troy. He appeared to be in the same seat as last time, placed directly in front of Troy, nearer to the right side of the bar than the left. His shirt was a different color than was previous, which had been maroon, and he now wore a green shirt and dark jeans that had ragged edges on the hem. The two were talking in whispered voices again, and Dean couldn't help but stalk over and listen in. He also sat in the same place as before, noticing the salt and pepper shakers positioned in the same spot he'd left them.

"When does the shift start?" the young man asked Troy, hushed.

Troy made a note of moving aside his long-sleeve shirt, just enough to uncover his black and gray watch. He must have gotten used to checking it and forgot about The Brader's clock on the wall, Dean thought, keeping his gaze discretely on Troy.

"Well, he should be here at 6:30, which gives him ten minutes. I can't make any promises, though," Troy said, his shoulders beginning to droop. "Your guess is as good as mine." His voice was laced with agony.

The other man sighed. "And the phone call? Why do you think he called you?"

Troy shrugged. "Probably some sort of warning. If Sam shows up, I'll tell him first thing."

The man gulped loudly in response, Dean not even having to strain to hear it. He licked his lips nervously, like he needed to ask something, something important, but for the life of him just didn't want to know the answer. "The man…the man that called you. Was he, uhh…," his voice lowered a notch, "Was he the one?"

Troy's eyes squinted and he cocked an eyebrow. "Was he the one that what, Randall?"

The man, Randall, lowered his voice even more. "Was he the one that _raped _him?"

Dean felt his heart stop, his breath coming in quick, raspy breaths. _Raped? His Sammy was raped?_ He swallowed hard. _No no no no no._

Troy's eyes widened in recognition then closed in pain. "Yeah, he's the one."

The young man across from him looked angry, enraged. The one hand that was visible on the marble tabletop was in a fist, his veins protruding from his skin. He gritted his teeth tightly, and Dean wondered if he was actually inflicting pain on himself intentionally, or if it was just careless vexation. The young man slammed his clenched fist on the tabletop, hard.

"God_damn_ it, how can we just sit here and do nothing?" he replied, the sound of accusation cutting Troy like thorns on a garden of roses.

Despite it all, he had managed to keep his voice from echoing around the bar, staying at nearly a whisper was just as effective to get the point across, though. But there was no doubt Troy's anger was just as emcompassing as the other man's. His eyebrows drew downward and his eyes ablaze with chagrin. He rested his hands on the marble tabletop, giving the man an expression Dean couldn't quite identify.

"What the fuck do you expect us to do? Huh? Kill his rapist? Kill off all those pieces of shit that hurt him so badly?" He waved his hand in a rage. "And then what? Expect us to go over to his house and kill his own goddamn dad?" Troy hissed in a low tone, "Come on, Randall, you _know _I can't do that."

The young man, Randall, gave him a look of disgust. "You think I was asking for that? Who do you think I am, a murderer?"

Troy eyed him carefully, Dean wondered if Troy was actually sure of the correct answer. Dean's eyes widened, shooting a look at the young man then back at Troy.

"No, I don't think that. I don't think you're a killer. What I do think, however, is that you're wanting to protect Sam for the wrong reasons."

The man flew off his stool in a heartbeat, both hands appearing in tight fists on top of the marble tabletop. "What the _fuck_ is that supposed to mean?" The sublety they had maintained for so long went out the window in a second. He had practically screamed out the question, so loud that Dean had to force himself not to cover his ears and run away like a little girl. Everyone turned to look at the two, exasperated and indignant looks on their faces. The interruption was obviously fairly displeasing and definitely _not _welcome.

Troy ignored the woed looks of the onlookers, looking at the young man in the eye as he spoke clearly and easily. "I think you befriend Sam for all the wrong reasons. Would my assumption be correct, or am I just pulling this shit out of my ass?"

Randall's surprise was more than obvious, whether it was from Troy's crazy accusation or that he got it dead on was another thing entirely. Did his observations on the man conclude on a darker path, or was Troy just a skeptical 19-year old teenager with too many enemies?

Dean truly didn't know, but he didn't have time to ponder for more than a second. The two were now standing erect, Troy coming from behind the bar to stand directly in front of the other, shorter man. They stared each other down for a long moment, neither saying anything.

After a long minute of silence, Troy muttered, "You know what? I think you want Sam for yourself." Randall gasped, barely lifting a fist before Troy sent a quick punch straight to the man's face, which he failed to block. He was hurled to the ground in a heartbeat, and scrambled to get back on his feet. Troy set his foot on his stomach before he could get up and pushed down, hard. The young man fell to the floor with a thud, his hands trying to push off Troy's foot with all his might. A kink of a bottle was made to the left side of the room, and Troy looked over. Randall took advantage of the distraction, heaving the foot off him and twisting it to the side, bringing Troy to the ground. He got to his knees and straddled him, throwing punches at the man's face which, for the most part, were blocked.

One second, Dean was watching the two fight to the death, the next second, however, occurred a little differently. The two were heaved up off the ground, and torn apart from each other. They were still at each other's throats, and whoever had pulled them apart now went to stand in between them. Sam, furious, put a strong hand on each of their shoulders, holding them back. If he hadn't have been so surprised, Dean may have gasped. But he held off, just barely, yet still continued to stare at Sam's undeniably commanding form.

The two seemed to be aware of Sam's presence now, too. They looked at him, wide-eyed, their mouths constantly opening to say something, then shutting fruitlessly. Sam was dead calm, just looking from one to the other in silence. He didn't look pleased.

Dean was almost tempted thank God that he wasn't Troy or the other man, that he was just a bystander. Even injured, Sam had managed to unscramble the two in a matter of seconds. He wore a hoodie and blue jeans, managing to cover up nearly all his injuries, but a scratch on his cheek was visible and, if he looked closely enough, Dean could see the line of red going around his neck from the chain. He looked away.

Dean watched as Sam closed his eyes, only distantly aware of the looks of awe and terror on the customers' faces. Sam opened them after a moment, looking to Troy, then the man.

"Well?" His voice was hard, cold. The calm facade he wore betrayed every feeling he no doubt had raging inside of him. He was furious, Dean could see it in the kid's deep, pained blue eyes. His, what Dean suspected to be friends were punching each other shitless, and if Sam just _looked _at one of them, he'd know it was about him.

Troy gulped, then licked his dry lips, trembling. He hung his head low, the one eye visible closed in that of shame, grief overwhelming him. Sam looked to Randall, whose head was also bowed down with remorse.

"I want to know what this is about. Now."

For a split second, Dean was reminded of John. He had that voice of leadership about him, as did John. Sam could make a flock of people who despised each other with a vengeance be at peace with one another and act as one. Not only did Dean hear leadership, but also a discernible need for the truth. He planned to be told the truth, whether it was from his influence or other, and he wouldn't accept anything less. It was like an episode of "Tell-Momma-Your-Problems-Or-Die Young" kind of thing.

Troy looked up at Sam for a split second, before breaking eye contact a second later. He must have seen the same thing Dean had. "I, we were discussing your..._problems." _Troy looked up again, probably making sure Sam understood which "problems" he was talking about. Sam's gaze grew darker. "And, well..." Troy began to fidget with a rip in his sleeve, twirling a piece of fabric in his fingers nervously. "We were wondering what we should do about it."

Sam stood silent for a long, agonizing moment. What was going through his head right now? Troy had said that Sam didn't want them to interfere, so how would he feel if they were planning how to do _exactly that _behind his back. He had to have felt betrayed, even if what they were doing was for him, for his safety. The pact they had made was broken, and Sam broke with it.

"I asked you guys to leave it alone."

Randall hadn't spoken in a while, and Dean watched as he nodded, hastily and nervously. "Yes, we're aware of that, Sam. But we're also aware of the fact that we're you're friends. We won't let them hurt you, not anymore." The man was shaking so hard Dean was surprised his words had actually come out comprehensible, even.

Sam seemed mildly surprised at the man's words.

"That's irrelevant. I told you not to interfere." He stopped, letting the two go and moving his hand to the bridge of his nose, massaging it with his pointer finger and thumb. He looked back up at the two. "What are you trying to prove?" he asked, so quietly even Dean had to strain to hear it. Sam's calm demeanor never strayed from him and, despite everything that's happened lately, he still hadn't blown up, which Dean would have done a while back. "Why can't you just leave me alone?"

Troy and the man looked stricken, taken aback by Sam in general. Dean was just as surprised as them. He _shouldn't_ have been was what really bothered him. He'd already seen Sam vulnerable, weak, once before and now was no different. He _sounded_ like he had just shriveled and died, been withered by harsh climates, and Dean felt like his heart had been physically torn from his chest. Why he felt for the kid the way he did, he had no idea. He felt that same sensation as before, that same connection he seemed to have with Sam.

He watched in horror as Sam abruptly walked past Troy and walked out of the bar.

**TBC...**

Hope you enjoyed liked it! Had more Sam in it, which hopefully made it more enjoyable for you Sam-lovers. You guys are fiends, I'm tellin' ya. (Don't worry I'm more of a Sam person myself, too).

Also, TBC means "to be continued". I know that's super random and that _everybody _already knew that, but for a long time I had no idea what that meant when I was first starting Fanfiction. I'd finish reading a fanfic and it'd say "TBC" and I'd just be like...What? Anyway, just if you were wondering or were curious, that's what it means. May have helped, maybe not. I gotta try, though.

_HOPE U ENJOYED IT!_

be looking for the next chapter, it'll come... =)


	9. Chapter 9

_**I love you like I love my pet fish Fluffy!**  
_P.S.- I don't have a pet fish =O

_**Disclaimer: umm...weeelllll, i DO happen to own Supernatural, but i'm not exactly allowed to tell you that. You see, Eric Kripke stole all my notes for the show and took all the credit. But, for now, I'm afraid I can do nothing. Therefore, until this matter is settled, Eric owns Supernatural, whilst I do not...but soon. Soon I shall be complete once again...**_

**ENJOY!**

Dean stood, too stunned to react. One minute, Sam was standing there, breaking up the fight between Troy and the other man, and the next he's stumbling out of The Braders in a drunken rush Dean couldn't possibly begin to understand. Before his brain knew what the rest of his body was planning, he flung himself toward the door and raced outside the bar, not even throwing a glance at Troy or the still questionable friend Randall. Outside the entrance, Dean shook his head this way and that in a frantic search for Sam. He cursed, seeing no one but random, judgemental pedestrians giving him weird looks. Sam had left a _second _before Dean and he was already gone. Just gone. Poof.

Dean heaved a sigh as he began pacing along the sidewalk, beginning his scouting. It wasn't crowded in this part of town and he could've seen Sam easily - that is, if he were there. Dean felt miserable, his flesh sizzling on a hot stove and his bones charred to pieces. Why hadn't he been fast enough? The kid seemed mentally unstable because of his friends' betrayal, as if they were the only people he could trust. And then there they went slipping out of Sam's grasp, lost in a gust of wind, now becoming alien to him.

Dean looked up at the sky, admiring the clouds from a distance. What would Sam do now that everyone he knew was lost, forgotten? Would he move on from this place? Or was there something keeping him here, something plastering him to the walls of this small, insignificant town?

There was a park up ahead; swing sets in place, red and purple slides with a shiny glitter from the sun's gaze, and monkey bars just waiting to be climbed by over-hyped children, all inside a large mound of sand. It was deserted, isolated, for the most part. Only one kid was in the large sandlot, rocking on the swing slowly, depressingly, his feet dragging in the sand as he swayed back and forth.

Dean walked over to Sam in some what of a rush, astonished. He had neither decided to go home nor to leave this place. That was good with Dean - _great _with him actually, he was so much easier to find - but why here? Why on this desolate playground nobody played in, or at least not this time of day? Everybody was at school. Except Sam.

He approached Sam carefully, deliberately. "May I sit here?" he asked, indicating the swing next to Sam.

The kid looked up at Dean, not showing the slightest bit of surprise, only sadness. Dean's feet, as he had crossed the sand, had only given the slightest crunch against his shoes, but Sam heard it anyway. _Of course_, Dean thought, exasperated, _I forgot, he's a damn ninja._

But, at that moment, it wasn't that hard for it to have slipped from his mind, the idea that Sam _wasn't _a kickass soldier was easier, quicker, to believe. Looking at Sam now, he looked like a small boy whose racecar had been taken from him and crushed in a sawmill while the toy driver had been decapitated then eaten by a grownup. His hands hung loosely on the chains supporting the swing, his arms drooping, and his feet dragged in the sand as he rocked slowly. He looked almost deflated, devoid of life.

"Okay" Sam said, putting his feet out in front and pushing off the ground lightly, turning from Dean back at the ground. Dean offered a small, innocent smile as he placed himself on the swing next to him. It was a little small, the chains on the side pushing into his hips, but it would do.

Dean watched Sam with curiosity. Why would something so trivial make Sam react like this? He didn't know what was going on with Randall, but Troy was genuinely concerned for Sam_, _something Dean doubted the kid came across often. They were trying to help fight off whatever outside forces Sam was battling with, not try and turn him darkside. _Damn it, what was with this kid? _he asked himself_,_ clenching his fists tightly on the chains at his sides.

"I used to take Jacob to this playground."

Dean turned to Sam, the kid's mouth curling upward in reminiscence, like he was replaying a fond memory.

"I'd push him on the swing, and all he could say was 'higher, pusher me higher'."

Sam didn't seem to be aware of Dean's presence as the fond memory replayed in his mind. Dean wasn't sure what to do, what to say, until Sam's smile slowly disappeared as he came back to reality.

With lots of sorrow and a little curiosity, Sam turned his head in the direction of the older man, furrowing his eyebrows a fraction of an inch.

"You think I'm a dumbass, don't you?" Sam asked.

He was referring to abandoning Troy and Randall at the bar. How could Dean see this intelligent boy before him and consider him a dumbass? He did think that Sam's insecurities, which were slowly beginning to show themselves, were one reason to reject assistance from his friends, but he wasn't a dumbass for it. Maybe Sam needed to prove to himself he could do something for himself, without any help. Dean couldn't imagine him as anything but independent, but maybe Sam saw himself differently.

Dean believed the kid's childhood, once revealed, would shed light on the subject as to why Sam would be acting like this.

Dean looked at the kid, not blinking. "Not for a second, Sam."

Sam eyebrows twitched in surprise, but no other movements or flashes of emotions followed. The utter truth in Dean's words had to have hit a cord in the kid. He just needed to know he wasn't alone in the world, that not everybody is out for blood.

Sam looked at the sand at his feet and kicked at it lightly. He wasn't saying anything, and Dean doubted the idea of speech was anything but appalling to him right now. Sam just sat silently, playing with the sand like it was his new best friend. Maybe it was.

Dean swallowed, just loud enough for Sam to hear. "Your friend Troy…" He swallowed again. "He, he thinks Randall wants something from you."

Sam continued swinging lightly. "He does."

"He thinks that's the reason he befriends you."

"It is."

And Dean was at a loss. It appears Sam was as observant as Dean had assumed him to be. Before Troy said anything on the subject, Dean had found nothing wrong with Randall, just saw him as a concerned friend.

Dean licked his lips. "What, uh, what exactly does he want from you?"

Sam was quiet for a long moment, Dean thought he was going to explode with the heavy anticipation.

Finally, Sam spoke. "He was one of the guys in the alley." He turned questioningly at Dean's audible gasp. "He didn't do any of the hitting; he just stood in the corner. He thought," Sam paused, taking a breath. "He thought once I was roughed up enough that, that I wouldn't be able to defend myself, that he could just do whatever he wanted with me." Sam snorted in dark amusement. "And he believed wearing a mask would make me not recognize him. He really is stupid."

Dean's mouth dropped open in shock before morphing into unadulterated rage_. _God, and he had been sitting right _next_ to the fucker. He breathed harshly through his nose, the implications too much to bear. His nostrils flared and his hands clenched tight on the chains of the swing. Troy had been right about that fucking _Randall, _he was just some sick asshole up to nothing good.

And he was going to pay.

But not now. Dean had to be strong for Sam, show him he was on his side. That he wasn't like fucking _Randall, _that he genuinely cared for Sam's well-being.

But there was still something that was still grating on Dean's nerves, something that kept popping into his head Every. Fucking. Minute. When Dean had been carrying Sam to his motel room…why did he punch him? Sam had been beaten shitless but then, when he's rescued, he punches the rescuer - yours truly - unconscious. It made no sense. Sam could read and analyze people toowell to think Dean was an attacker. Was Sam in a rush and couldn't let Dean know where he was going, what he was doing?

Dean had to find out sooner or later, why not sooner? Subtly was key. If he could do that, he may just get some more answers out of Sam after all.

Instead, Dean blurted, "What happened to you in the alley the other day? Why were they doing that to you?"

God_damn_ it.

Surprisingly, Sam didn't even flinch at the utterly blunt and forthright words, but nonetheless seemed to curl into himself. Yet, the kid wasn't necessarily _slouching, _he was as straight as a flagpole in simple terms. Maybe it was more internal, the slouching, and Sam was slowly crumbling into dust inside, behind closed doors, and Dean wasn't there to straighten him out.

Sam let a cruel smile pass through his lips. "Rather blunt, don't you think? I thought you would be more subtle than that."

Dean nearly laughed with the irony, but he held it in. Laughing now would not be the time nor the place to do so, not with Sam so unstable.

Or _was_ he unstable? Was this just his way of dealing with a loss, brooding in the sandlot on a swing until it passed over him, only faded memories coming to torture him instead of sharp, focused memories? Did he let it seep out his system until he was left with only a faint scar, scabbed over after years of pain and suffering?

Sam looked back up to meet Dean's eyes. It seemed like the kid liked what he saw. He offered a vague smile as he stared into Dean's green eyes. What did he see there? Did he see the fire in Dean's eyes, the utter sadness lying underneath, the cracked mask he, at one point, had to a fine art. Slowly, Dean was breaking, along with Sam.

"You gonna tell me what happened or should I start guessing now?" Dean asked, a barely lit smile surfacing. Sam looked down for a second, then back at Dean's face, a small, _genuine _smile of his own managing to brighten his features.

"I was right."

Dean rose a confused eyebrow. "What?"

Sam's smile was still in place, not having moved downward more as a frown. Not even a bit. "At the bar, I had told you you were different." He turned to look at his feet, kicking sand up into the air like a mini tornado. "I was right."

The moment was so surreal Dean didn't know what to do with himself. Literally. He didn't know what he was doing, what he expected to accomplish, but he felt so uneducated in this category. He went with the one thing he _knew _would work, or at least had the possibility of working. He smiled a friendly smile right back at the kid.

Regardless of everything, Sam seemed undeterred by the fact that, despite your best efforts, some things can't be changed. Whatever life Sam led, he fought to overcome all it's difficulties in the most effective way he knew to do. He worked at the bar to get money, kept himself well-trained and healthy, and took care of his brother, Jacob. Well, the last one was a guess, but Dean had the feeling that Sam wouldn't leave the kid out to dry. A very _strong _feeling, actually.

When Dean looked back to Sam, the smile had disappeared from his face and he was watching cars drive by in a flash of color. He seemed a bit spaced out, and Dean didn't really want to ruin the moment.

Wait. What moment?

After staring at the cars for a few seconds, Dean turned back to Sam. "What happened that night? Who were they?" Dean knew full well that Sam understood the line of questioning. He had asked it earlier, only minutes ago, blunt and to the point, as it was now.

Sam didn't react to the question, as Dean had suspected would be the case, and continued staring at the cars.

It would be a long day.

**SNSNSNSN**

hope you guys have a great day and none of you die from your friends' April Fools jokes. Good luck, I have genuine faith you shall survive!

**Reviews are like money! WOOT.**


	10. Chapter 10

Alright, here's the next update.

hope u enjoy!

**ENJOY!**

* * *

Dean's hands trembled, his hold on the chains of the swingset vice-like against his palms. The chains were surprisingly and thankfully still intact, but Dean didn't know how much longer that would last. Sam still wasn't saying anything and didn't look like he'd be making any move to speak in the near future. What was the kid thinking about? Was his mind tracing back to that night where those guys beat him up, where Randall was waiting to abuse him in the worst manner possible?

Dean clenched the chains harder, if that was even possible. He wouldn't know the answer to any of those questions if he didn't get a conversation started soon. He turned back to Sam, only to see the kid watching him intently. Dean flushed, dropping his hands from the chains and looking over to the deserted streets. He could still feel Sam's gaze, but ignored it. The coffee shop at the end of the street was the most crowded place in the vicinity, and there were only six cars in the parking lot. That didn't say much about this part of town, and Dean got the feeling Sam lived somewhere near here. He looked around for any trailers or small, rundown houses, but found none. He turned back to look at Sam, who was still watching him with an expressionless face.

"Is there something on my face?" Dean asked, grinning.

That broke Sam's intent gaze at last, a small smile creeping onto his lips as he turned away, watching an old lady leave the coffee shop. He had a blissful look about him, and Dean hated to break it.

"You never answered my question."

Sam looked back at him, almost knowingly, that same blissful, enchanting look on his face. It was enrapturing, the way he knew exactly what Dean was talking about. He was going to talk about something that was probably one of the most suffering times for him, yet he was so willing to share with the class, the class being _Dean. _His heart swelled at the idea of Sam telling him something very few other people were even aware of, with Sam already so selective on his acquaintances and friendships. It made him feel special.

"Do you remember that guy at the bar? The one I got in a fight with?"

Dean nodded, then realized Sam was looking down at the ground. "Yeah."

"He was friends with the those guys in the alley." He sighed. "They wanted revenge for what I did to him."

Dean watched the kid for a moment, pondering. "But you didn't do any real damage, just a bruise or two. All you really did was hurt his ego…right?" Dean paused, realizing his last question was probably based on nothing but assumption. He remembered first seeing Sam and the big guy meeting at the bar, as if they'd seen each other before. The man had spoken to Sam with anger, hunger, then lashed out because of Sam's lack of respect, though the former was anything but respectful.

Sam shook his head slowly. "He was furious with me from...from before. When he-" Sam stopped again, a longer pause separating his words, nearly choking on his own words. Dean never remembered the kid having so much emotion in his expression before. It looked as though there was a war battling in him, both sides fighting for dominance over the other.

Sam's brows creased, deep in thought. Dean wanted to urge him on, keep him talking, because his stomach was nearly doubling over in anxiety, but he was willing to practice a little patience. He had to. But that wouldn't be a problem, he was more than capable of staying out here until one in the morning until Sam spoke if need be. Once again, he felt that strong bond he had with Sam, trying to pull them together in an unbreakable seal. It was surreal, and he couldn't have expected anything less.

"He...he made a move on my brother." Sam's hands were clenched into tight fists, and Dean nearly readied himself for an attack. He could almost _hear _Sam's heart, beating rapidly through his chest as it prepared for escape when Sam's defenses were lowest. It tortured Dean to no end, knowing it affected Sam in this way.

Sam continued. "I don't know if he just had a thing for my brother or if it was some..._demented _joke" he spat out with ferocity. "I embarrassed him in front of his friends one day, and a week later he shows up at our house while I'm at work and Dad's...not there." Sam held his face in his hands and choked down a sob. Dean got off his swing and knelt down beside Sam, rubbing Sam's back in soothing, rhythmic circles. The gesture felt useless, his kind actions hardly capable of replacing the harsh ones done to Jacob. The world didn't work that way. Dean just hoped with everything he could muster it helped ease at least a fraction of the pain. It wasn't much, but he tried.

"Shh, Sam. It's okay. You don't have to talk about it anymore, it's okay."

One small tear traced down the outlines of Sam's cheek as he looked up from his hands, staring into Dean's eyes. "He almost _raped _my brother." Sam brushed the tear away with the back of his hand, his anger turning to quiet self-disgust. "I barely made it. I...I was almost too late." He paused, smiling with a glint of evil in every feature. "You should have _seen_ the look on his face when he saw me there, standing at the door." Sam laughed grimly at words that weren't funny. "I looked like the fucking apocalypse."

Dean stayed kneeling beside him, silent. He could picture it, and it was one of the most grotesque images he'd ever encountered himself thinking. The thought of Sam walking in on the big man on top of his little brother, Jacob. He pushed it away almost instantly, guilt flooding through him as if Sam knew his thoughts had turned darkside.

Sam looked at him through hazy, unfocused eyes. Dean said nothing, just looked at Sam with sad eyes, continuing to rub his back lightly, remembering the injuries, the whippings, he had suffered all over his back.

They stayed like that for an immeasurable amount of time, the sky turning a dark black. A few streetlights had come on a while back, illuminating small spots of light, botched by the overcoming darkness surrounding it. Dean looked out at the empty road.

"Why did you run away from me after what happened in the alley? Why did you knock me out?"

With Sam's defenses down, even in the near darkness Dean could see Sam stiffen, his back erect and his muscles tight. Sam looked away to view the "Keep off" sign on the property of some biggot with all money and no friends.

Dean pushed, "Did it have something to do with that guy? That guy at the bar?"

After a long moment, Sam shook his head. "He didn't have anything to do with it. It was...something else. I don't really wanna talk about it." Sam looked up at Dean a fleeting second and Dean saw the apprehension and pain in his face. He said no more.

Time passed, possibly hours, before Dean finally broke the silence, his voice cracking from lack of use.

"Maybe we should get going" Dean said, eyeing Sam carefully, then his watch. _1:36_. Damn. Sam nodded slowly, his thoughts still lingering on Jacob. "Will you be okay, Sam?" Sam looked up, forcing a slight smile onto his lips.

"Yeah, I'll be fine." He paused. "Thanks Dean, for everything."

Dean looked back at him to see a _genuine _smile this time, not some fake shit plastered onto his lips, it was _real. _Dean's heart sputtered.

"No problem, little man."

They turned separate ways and Dean began to wonder if he should go visit the bar tomorrow, see if Sam would be there. According to Troy, Sam worked night shifts, but that could have been for today only, or once a week. He decided to check out the bar every now and again to see how Sam was doing.

Speaking of how he was doing...

Dean spun around to see Sam's retreating form still in his line of sight. He ran toward him. "Sam" he called out, but it was unnecessary. Sam had already turned around and was now looking warily at Dean.

"I forgot to ask, how are your wounds doing? Did you get them stitched up?"

Sam looked surprised, whether by the random question or by the idea Dean cared, he wasn't sure. Sam nodded. "Yeah, they're doing fine. A little sore."

Dean nodded, though he knew damn well it was more than a little sore. Injuries like that left permanent scars. Sam wouldn't be able to wear short-sleeve shirts when the weather got stifling, but he couldn't layer up too much in cold weather or else it'd put more pressure on the scars. There were so many limitations to having those scars.

"Lemme just see," Dean said as politely as he could without sounding demanding. Reluctantly, as if annoyed that Dean didn't find him fit to patch up injuries on his own, Sam carefully eased out of his hoodie, tossing it to the sand. The hood of his jacket had concealed the bruise going all around his neck, but without it, it was uncovered for the world to see. It was a dirty brown hue, with a small line of red in the center, probably where the chain had been placed when they dragged him.

He lifted his shirt to reveal a ripple of muscles, covered by old, faded bruises. They were a brownish-yellow, which meant they were on the mend. Yet, some of the bruises were a dark purple, or blue, which led Dean to believe they were new. Dean looked up to meet Sam's eyes but said nothing. If he needed to know something, Sam would tell him. _Hopefully._

The chainsaw slashes on his arms and chest were fixed up, the stitches on his chest in perfect alignment with each other, making Dean wonder who had actually done this. Yes, Sam kicked ass on a daily basis, but he was still a teenager, a sixteen year old kid. He couldn't have done this, much less to himself.

The stitches on Sam's arms were a little more unkempt than the ones on his chest, but were nonetheless extremely effective. _Who did these?_

Dean did a twirling of his finger in Sam's direction. Sam rolled his eyes, turning around.

Dean grimaced at the red crisscrosses all over Sam's back, every square inch covered in dried blood. The marks were protruding out of his skin, and Sam didn't need Dean telling him they'd be there as a reminder the rest of his life. He could do without right then.

What Dean had failed to notice on his last inspection, the time when he'd found Sam in the alley, was that Sam had a tattoo on the upper right-hand side of his back. It was a black-and-white horizontal scroll, reading in red ink "Frater". Latin for "brother".

Dean found himself smiling giddily. "Okay, all clear."

Sam seemed to hear the smile in his voice as he let his shirt fall, turning around to look at Dean curiously. It seemed to dawn on Sam only a second after the fact and he blushed, a small smile creeping onto his face.

Dean patted him lightly on the back. "I'll see you around, Sam."

Sam nodded as they parted ways once more.

**SNSNSNSN**

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do u think i should continue "Won't Back Down" or Waiting Hastily"? I'm having mixed thoughts about the two and was wondering if you guys had any sort of input on the situation.

_HOPE U ENJOYED IT._


	11. Chapter 11

_**Luv Ya like I love my pet fish Fluffy!  
**_P.S.- I don't have a pet fish! **=O**

I have NO beta! Sorry for the inconvenience! hope u like it!

**ENJOY!**

After Sam and Dean's departure, Dean went and got his Impala out of the The Braders parking lot and headed for the motel room. It had been a very eventful day for him, all the newly acquired information swirling around in his head, fitting together like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. There were still a few missing, but he didn't want Sam to have an overload all in one day. He'd get the information little by little, day by day, until it all came spewing out. So far, though, he had enough on his plate where information came in. But, even so, he was still in the dark about at least one thing: why Sam had knocked Dean out. What would that accomplish for Sam? What was his motive?

Whatever the answer, Dean would find out, sooner rather than later. Until then, however, he'd have to tread carefully, keep each step precise, controlled, not only in front of Sam but his friends, too. If he got Sam's trust, the others would follow, but, until then, he'd need to at least make an impression with Troy and the others.

He sighed. It'd been a _long _day, and he yearned for his bed. He drove into the motel parking lot and placed his baby in the corner of the lot, least likely to be caught in a collision with a trespasser, pedestrian, car, demon, rapid ferret, etc. He stepped out of the Impala and shut the door with ease, then treaded to his and John's room. Unfortunately, he had to ride the damn elevator again, which meant _more _walking. He trudged to the elevator and, with considerably less enthusiasm than his first time encounter, pressed the "up" button.

After a moment, the doors flew open, carrying a load of passengers with it. He waited until they all scattered out before he placed himself inside the elevator, and pressed the 4. He perched on the railing and rested his head in his hand, exhausted. The elevator rumbled as he was casually brought up to the fourth level, and the doors opened with a patently slow motion. On autopilot, he walked half-consciously to Room 412, got his card out of his jean pocket, and keyed it open after the fourth try. He flung the door open, his body longing for release. He was faintly aware of John's concerned gaze looking him up and down, but he ignored it. Finding the bed next to him to be extremely alluring, he plopped onto it heavily.

And fell asleep.

SNSNSN.

Dean woke with a start, his head turning this way and that in search for any sign of trespassing. Everything was in its place, though; the furniture was unscathed, the drawers and chests sealed shut, the door revealing no signs of picking. In the kitchen, John poked his head out, a sheepish look on his face. He waved Dean off effortlessly.

"Sorry. Dropped the pan." John's head disappeared and Dean heard the clacking of pots and pans before he reappeared a moment later, his hands in his pockets. The sheepish look hadn't disappeared, it was just overridden by the concerned, endearing expression as John eyed him carefully.

"You feeling okay?"

The memories from last night flooded back to Dean in a blur of intense motion. He nodded, the minuscule motion irritating his head, keeping his gaze on John. He'd learned so much about the kid yesterday, his head still feeling overloaded with details.

"What happened? Dean, I need to know what happened." John spoke sternly, protectively. The well-being of Dean was too much for him to put at risk and he knew it, just as well as Dean. If Dean didn't offer up the information freely, he'd take it from him.

But the information, in and of itself, wasn't hard to come by. Not at all. Dean knew his father deserved an explanation, and he was damn sure going to give him one.

So Dean began, neither rushing nor delaying his speech. He kept pace with his mind, which, in truth, wasn't all that fast. Not for this. The thing was, thinking is so easy for us, it comes so naturally we don't actually have to _think _about what we're thinking.

Then there's the _speaking_ of thoughts. That's the tricky part. It's so easy for thoughts to just pop in your head, but having to conjure them through tongue is paralysis to the brain. The mind can take so many different roads to a single destination, and you get to pick which one to take. Oh no, it's not just the "easy" road and the "hard" road. There's that, and everything in between.

So for Dean to speak of everything he ever perceived about Sam, it was hard. He had to discuss the emotions running through his brain, the little, minute details of the kid's psyche. He had to replay all the bad things, and the few good things that occured, and give detailed information he didn't even know he'd realized until they spilled from his mouth like acid. This sounds hard only because it is.

With John, he told of the first time he met Sam at The Braders, then ended with everything they talked about last night. By the end of the discussion, John's gaze was glassy, unfocused, and staring at the wall. Or a painting of the duck on the wall, Dean couldn't tell for sure. Dean moved into John's line of vision, looking at him dubiously. Proving ineffective, he snapped his fingers in his face and added a "Hello? Where the hell are you?".

John snapped up like he'd been bitten by a piranha, swimming for cover. He jerked his head around, somehow missing Dean when he was right in front of him, until his eyes landed on Dean's. Warily, he looked away and sat down on the side of Dean's bed. He stared at the wall, but was nonetheless with Dean both physically and in spirit.

"Okayy, that was weird. You never told me you were a neophyte."

John didn't seem hear. Moments later after long, torturous silence, he turned to Dean. "What's his name?"

"What?"

John fidgeted with a frayed piece of the bedspread material. "Sam. What's his last name?"

Dean cocked an eyebrow. What the hell? Was John under the impression he already _knew _this kid? Dean shook his head. He had left out too many physical descriptions for the older man to think he knew him from somewhere. All he had said on his appearance was that he was scrawny with shaggy brown hair.

Dean responded irritably, "I have no idea, I didn't exactly ask him. Why the hell does it matter?"

John stood up and headed into the kitchen. "No reason," he said, sardonic. In the kitchen Dean could hear John cooking up some lunch and bustling through papers. Dean sighed heavily, then looked at his watch. 12:31. He didn't have time for John's cryptic messages. He had been waiting to check out The Braders today and, since John wasn't talking to him, what better time than now? He grabbed his discarded jacket off the floor and shrugged it on. After snatching his keys off the desk he was almost out the door when he heard his father's muffled, "Wait".

Dean stopped mid-step, looking back at his father questionably, already eager to see Sam again. John stood stockstill, the towel that had been drying his hands off frozen in time. Dean urged him on, moving his hand around festively.

John gulped. Looked at the ceiling, at his feet, then finally back at Dean. "What color were his eyes?"

Dean's gesturing hand motion stopped instantaneously. He stared at his father for a long time, his heart beating wickedly fast, doing somersaults in his chest and through his stomach. What the fuck kind of question was _that?_

"Blue," Dean said hesitantly.

Apprehension and wonder filled John's eyes simultaneously for the smallest fraction of a second before he turned around swiftly and went into the kitchen, drying off his hands almost eagerly. "Just curious."

Stunned, Dean stared at the space John had been filling not a second before, his mind doing backflips to make the dots connect. After another moment, he heaved an annoyed sigh and ran out the door, into the Impala.

SNSNSNSN

Dean arrived at The Barders in record time, getting there just under four minutes. He shook his head furiously, ineffectively clearing his mind. He wanted to drive right back to the motel room and demand that John tell him what the fuck he meant. What other reason would you ask someone what color eyes that person had unless you wanted to clarify who the hell they were discussing? Did John know Sammy, were they friends?

Dean seethed in anger, his hands twisting around the steering wheel until his knuckles turned white. What the _fuck? _Before, when Dean had run out of the motel room angrily, had John already known it was Sam? Had he gotten defensive, infuriated that Dean hadn't stood up for the kid, while John would have.

Before he knew what he was doing, he exploded out of the Impala with a fit of fury, being gentle with his baby's car door not exactly on his list of priorities. He went into The Braders in a rush, instantly searching the bar for the familiar face with shaggy brown hair.

And the breath had been knocked out of Dean not a second after.

Behind the counter, Sam stood serving a couple two margaritas with his one good hand, the right hand. The other was wrapped with gauze up to his elbow, white wrap encompassing the majority of his arm. He had a bluish, purple bruise on his left jaw, visible for all the eyes of the public. He wasn't wearing a hoodie or long-sleeved shirt either, making the gauze all the more noticeable and the bruise stand out from less clothing. Only the blind or the dead could miss it.

Breathless, Dean threw himself onto the bar stool in front of Sam.

"Hello," Sam said without looking up at him.

"What the hell happened?" Dean couldn't help but show how concerned he was, how _angry_ he was, despite his effort to remain stoic. It wasn't his nature to be expressive, but this kid brought out all his recessive features.

Sam paused, before going back to washing yet another set of wineglasses. "I'd rather not talk about it," he said evasively, picking up a wineglass with his right hand and holding a wash cloth carefully in his left.

Dean crushed his hand in his fist to keep from punching the woman next to him. When was Sam going to get it through his thick skull that Dean actually _cared_? That the life of this kid flowed through his own blood, that the pumping of Dean's heart pumped for Sam's. That, in a heartbeat, he'd be willing to take a bullet for Sam, and yet he doesn't even realize any of it.

Whoa. Where the hell did that come from?

Dean sat still, his eyes widened, confused with his own mind's perceptions. _Was _he willing to die for Sam? Did he feel a bond with Sam so strong that he thought Sam's life existed in Dean's as well? If, one day, it came down to Sam's life or Dean's, which would he choose? Dean sucked in a breath.

"Sam, please tell me what happened." Dean looked up from the marble tabletop to meet Sam's eyes. From Sam's stance, it seemed as though he had been watching him the whole time. He had set down the wineglass and never made a move to the next one, even after Dean's comment. Once again, Dean felt like squirming in his seat from Sam's near stare and wanted to crawl his way through the floor, seep into the soils below The Braders and disappear.

At last, Sam turned away and picked up a wineglass. "It doesn't matter," he said, cleaning the glass. "Don't worry about it." Sam washed the glass with his left hand. Dean watched Sam wince, his muscles tightening as he applied too much pressure onto his injured hand. It almost threw Dean off the edge. Completely. Only days ago, Sam was tortured by a gang of badass bastards and now he has _more _unexplainable injuries?

A low hiss escaped Dean's mouth as he gazed at the chainsaw slices still left on Sam's arms. They were anything but gone, and Dean wasn't particularly content to see there was no gauze wrapped around them. Why had he taken it off?

The line of red going around his neck was still there, surrounded by a layer of blue and black on each side. And why was he wearing short-sleeves? Why would he present all his scars now, when he could've done that days ago, when they were nice and fresh? Yeah, chicks digged scars, Dean got that, but not necessarily ones that look like you got in a fight with a fire-breathing, kung-fu master dragon with a black belt and lost, miserably.

Just when Dean was about to reply to Sam's indifference on the matter, he heard a pair of feet dragging into the bar. He didn't know why he had paid so much attention to them, _those _feet, they just stood out from the rest. It didn't make a whole lot of sense, but, with a little curiosity, Dean turned around to take a look.

There stood a small kid, probably 10 or 11, with a long, nasty scratch going across his cheek. His eyes appeared watery, but no tears were spilled. His hair was a dark brown, maybe even black in the right lighting. It looked like it hadn't been cut in a while, his bangs swooping across his face and over his eyes. He looked similar to someone, his expression exuding confidence even on the brink of tears - a weird combination to pull off at such a young age. The hair was so familiar to Dean, too, that shaggy look he had. Wait, _shaggy _hair...Fuck.

Jacob.

**SNSNSNSNSN**

WOOT. Hope you liked it!

I realize it's been a while since i've updated and I apologize! I hate making excuses for myself, but I _had _it fully written out not two days ago before I accidentally erased it. Don't ask me how...please, spare me the embarrassment. Lol, ANYWAY, if u have any questions, comments, or profound statements you would like addressed you can do so via email, PM, or review. Thanks so much! =)

Until next time!


	12. Chapter 12

_**Luv ya like I luv my pet fish Fluffy!  
**P.S.- I don't have a pet fish _=O

**ENJOY!**

Dean watched Jacob for a half second with intrigue before spinning around in his seat, just in time to see Sam leaping through the air. He had effectively jumped over the bar, sliding smoothly across the marble tabletop, and landed flat on his feet only three feet away from who Dean thought was his baby brother. He did a half-jog, half-run over to Jacob's side, whose tears still hadn't fallen, and dropped to his knees in front of him, looking defeated. Sam placed his hands on the little guy's shoulders, then moved them up to his neck, rubbing the tight skin softly.

Dean evaluated the situation almost timidly. In normal cases, Sam was excellent at keeping his emotions at bay and remaining a complete stoic. Evidently, this wasn't a normal case because Sam was shivering, hard. The muscles in his body were having spasmodic convulsions at frighteningly often intervals and, even though Sam's back was to him, he could just imagine the kid's face right now: anger, rage, downright fucking _scary_.

Slowly, Sam reached up with shaky hand and placed his index finger on Jacob's cheek, tracing along the jagged scratch that went from ear to chin along the little kid's otherwise unblemished skin. From Dean's point of view, Sam was almost mesmerized by it, as if he didn't actually believe it was there, and he was just waiting for the bad dream to finally go away. Sam rested his forehead against Jacob's for a long moment before bringing him into an affectionate hug. Not only was it endearing, it was protective as well, his back arched to keep his baby brother out of view while his arms rubbed rhythmically down Jacob's back.

Dean couldn't see Jacob's face, but he could bet the tears, at long last, had spilled. He didn't know Sam as personally as he would like right now, but he could guess the kind of affect he had on people. He was that kid that could make a stranger spill their heart to him, and not just on a whim. He may seem inimical, antipathetic, but, as far as Dean knew, he wasn't, far from it actually. The sight he saw now proved it.

Dean got off his stool and walked a few feet in their direction, then stopped. What if Jacob saw him, a complete stranger, walk up to them? Was he as skeptical as his big brother, or was he more the naive type? Even so, should he break in on their...reunion? It was the two of them, just them; brother-on-brother, not brother-on-brother-and-Dean.

He decided against checking on them and watched from a safe distance. If someone took a picture of those two, then sent it off to Dean, asking if they truly cared for each other, there was only one answer he could give and still be telling the truth. On the streets, Dean would watch siblings push on each other, spit in each others' ear, curse, but Dean couldn't expect it from these two, not in the world. They were a special kind of love, one of those once in a lifetime chances. They were those kind of kids that were taught the right way, brought up to not only stay true to themselves, but also their sibling.

Dean turned around to see Troy gazing at the two boys, nearly staring holes in Sam's back at the sight. He raced to their side, then stopped abruptly behind Sam, as if also not wanting to intrude. Sam sensed Troy anyway, and stood, Jacob's hand enclosed in his own. Dean, still watching the two, noticed there were tear streaks splayed on Jacob's cheeks, and splattered little wet spots on his shirt and Sam's.

Sam walked him over to the bar, hand-in-hand, and, almost mentally, Dean could tell he was contemplating where Jacob would sit. It was a reasonable thought. To Dean's right, there were three men drinking shots, and lots of them, one of them already beginning to hiccup obnoxiously, while to his left there were a group of hustlers playing a game of pool, one of them most obviously losing.

In the end, Sam had decided on a seat to the left, conveniently located right beside Dean. Sam's eyes flashed to Dean's for nearly an eighth of a second, a weird sparkle placed in those blue eyes, as if saying "I trust you with him." Dean wouldn't admit it, never could, but his heart jumped at that thought, the thought that Sam, the kid he had been watching for only God knows how long, finally trusted him, even with his own baby brother.

Sam went around to the other side of the bar quickly, Troy trailing behind him, almost as if scared to leave Jacob unattended a moment longer, even if Sam _did_ trust Dean. It was understandable.

Sam placed himself directly in front of Jacob, Troy standing a little more in front Dean. He placed his elbows on the inner bar, where all the beer and fountain drinks were stored, and leaned over in Jacob's direction casually, his head above the marble tabletop. If Dean had to guess, Sam was doing it to stay closer to Jacob.

Sam looked down at his injured hand half a second, before looking back up to meet Jacob's dark brown eyes. "What happened?" He said it quietly, but only enough to keep away from intrusive and curious ears. Dean almost wanted to jump for joy, despite the less-than-happy situation. Not only did he allow Jacob to sit right beside Dean, but he also didn't mind Dean getting into the conversation, staying up-to-date on his _brother_. Sam noticed Dean's conclusion, looking back at him curiously, almost fascinated, before turning back to Jacob.

Jacob's tears had stopped flowing, but his cheeks were a little red, the tear streaks still visible. Sam wiped them away with his thumb.

"I...I was going home after, after going to the bookstore. There was this really cool book I'd been reading_._ I wasn't paying attention, and it was nearly 11:30 when I looked at the clock."

Jacob closed his eyes tight, a sniffle escape him. Sam looked even more unnerving than before, though Dean doubted it was even possible. He almost imagined air flying out Sam's ears and nostrils. Though, Dean could tell he wasn't angry with Jacob, he couldn't even grasp the _idea_ of it. More likely was the idea that Sam was angry about the situation as a whole. Even so, Dean couldn't think of who or what he _would_ be angry with if not his brother. What was there to be angry about, the kid only read until 11:30. Did Sam not like him reading, that books rot brains or did it have something to do with the time? Did they have some sort of schedule and 11:30 was some important time to remember?

"So I ran. I ran as fast as I could, brother." Jacob wiped his eyes as another tear threatened to escape. "Please believe me. I didn't mean to."

That seemed to be the kid's breaking point. He burst, like a balloon filled with too much hot air and no helium.

"Shh. Shh, it's okay. I got ya." Over the tabletop, Sam cradled his baby brother into his chest as Jacob began to rock, back and forth, back and forth. Sam squeezed his eyes shut as he held his brother, his mouth beginning to tremble. He dug his teeth into his bottom lip, effectively stopping the tremble but drawing blood in the process. He didn't seem to notice.

Dean didn't know what to do at that point. There they were, Jacob crying and Sam holding him, and Dean didn't know what to do with himself. Should he comfort Jacob? Should he move and give the two some room? Should he wait and get answers later? He was fixed on getting some answers from Troy, who seemed to be fairly up-to-date with the awful lifestyle Sam has endured. What harm would it do?

Hesitantly, he maneuvered away from the two, slid over the tabletop as Sam had done, somehow feeling awkward when he compared himself to Sam, and trudged over to Troy. He looked over, distress marring his features. Dean could only see the one eye that his black hair wasn't covering, but he could see the pool of sorrow in it nonetheless. Troy offered Dean a small smile as he watched him walk over and stand beside him.

Dean lowered his voice, though he still got the feeling Sam would hear him. Damn. "Is that Sam's brother, Jacob?"

Troy eyed him silently, probably wondering how Dean knew his name was Jacob. Dean's facial mask almost slipped; he forgot he wasn't actually supposed to know that yet, that he had learned that from eavesdropping on Troy and the thick guy. Troy brushed it off, leaning in closer to Dean's ear.

"Yeah. Sam's really protective of him, I'd suggest not making any bad decisions when it involves the little guy, cause that'd sure as hell be the last thing you ever did."

Dean nodded thoughtfully. "How old is he?"

"Eleven. Turning twelve four months from now, sometime in June." Dean nodded again, now preparing himself for the other, more important questions at hand.

Dean never got the chance. Sam seemed to have chosen the perfect time to stop his embrace. Slowly, he unlatched his fingers from behind Jacob's back and smoothed the little guy's hair down with his good hand. Jacob's eyes were bloodshot, the exuded confidence long gone, now revealing a lost, innocent little child with no way home. Dean couldn't really remember hearing any signs of crying, but decided it must have been muffled by Sam's shirt.

Sam straightened up and held his own weight as he watched Jacob sympathetically as he wiped at his nose furiously. Well, maybe not necessarily sympathetic, that was too big an emotion for him to actually _show, _but he was nevertheless thoughtful, even sad. He looked over to Troy.

"I have to leave. Can you take my shift?"

Troy nodded sadly. "Of course."

As they had done so many times before, they seemed to exchange this look, the kind of look that set off alarms in your head that told you they knew something you didn't. No surprise there.

Sam offered up a small smile, or so Dean thought it was _supposed _to be, and walked around to the other side of the bar, unlike last time where he hurled himself _over _the bar. Standing beside Jacob, who was a good foot shorter than him, Sam took the kid's hand in his and walked him over to the door. Troy stood there, watching them go, and Dean didn't know why the _fuck _he hadn't done the same. His body seemed to be put on auto-pilot without his permission or consent. He leapt forward in a rush of madness, throwing his hand out, as if trying to catch them mid-flight. He had nearly reached them, too, if it hadn't been for the bigass bar in front of him. _Thank you bigass bar. _What a goddamn disaster.

Of course, Sam had seemed to notice the moment said disaster even began to occur and was now looking at Dean inquisitively with Jacob cowering behind Sam's thin body, his fingers clasped onto Sam's shirt like a fist of iron. Sam's eyes turned hard for a split-second, before all of sudden transferring over to the sad, forlorn look, as though he had come to a realization on something, a battle no longer warring inside his head. He offered a sad smile, thankfully more successful than the last.

"Meet me tomorrow at 9. On the playground."

Sam turned, Jacob glued to his side, as he walked out of The Braders. Dean stood there behind the marble tabletop, stunned. What had he seen in Dean's expression to decide a meeting place for them like that? Had he seen the desperate need for answers in Dean's leap? That seemed like the only logical, reasonable explanation. Why else would Dean jump out like that?

He glanced over at Troy, who also seemed confused. He shrugged in response. Dean turned toward the door, said a quick goodbye, then headed for the exit and went over to the Impala. There was a white note stuck under his windshield wipers and, at first, he had considered it to be a ticket. At further inspection, however, he found it to be an index card. The handwriting was neat and effortlessly read._ You'll have you're answers. -Sam_.

Dean stood, breathless. How had Sam known this was his car, his baby? He'd never seen him with it, had he? No, no, that couldn't be. But then, how else could Sam have known?

Without any warning on his part, Dean laughed. He actually fucking _laughed. _That kid was something else, some otherworldly being, not familiar with this galaxy yet. Not familiar with the idea that everyone in this world is evil, and there he went messing up the pattern that had been going on for hundreds of thousands of years. Sam was a good person, even though he kicked ass on an assumed frequent basis. He was smart, even though he didn't go to school. He was a friend, even though Dean didn't know his last name. He was loved, even though so many hated him.

_He was family._

Dean was beginning to feel giddy, which was when he _really _knew he was in trouble. It was as if he had just been given a love note by his high school crush. He took the note and put it carefully into his jacket pocket.

Time to go home.

**SNSNSNSNSN**

_hope u enjoyed it!_

ok, SUPER sorry that took so long to update. I went over to my grandparents house over the weekend and never had time to write anything; I actually really missed writing, I got very sad =(. And, guess what, when I _did _have time to update, I did so in a timely fashion then erased it all..._again. _I swear I don't mean to, I don't know what happens...my computer is possessed or something. Anyway, hope u guys had a great Easter and lots and lots of chocolate/candy/vanilla/candy/yummy/candy/awesomeness! YEAH!

Love.


	13. Chapter 13

_**I love you like I love my pet fish!  
**P.S. I don't have a pet fish =O_

**My beautiful disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural. If anyone claims that I do, which I surely hope you do not, I will put a bullet through your head, a milk carton jabbed inside your ribs, a hose pipe shoved up your nose, and a weedeater lanced into your escophagus. Then, shortly after, a bomb will be gingerly placed into your stomach that has five minutes before self-destruct. Good luck.**

**ENJOY!**

Dean burst through the motel room in a rush, pushing his body against the not-too-sturdy door and nearly taking it off it's hinges. Luckily, it stayed intact, which meant less time for Dean to waste. He shut the door then turned to face the newspaper, clippings-filled room.

By now, John was jogging over to him, from where he'd previously been reading the newspaper by the looks of it. He looked Dean up and down continuously, checking his arms, legs, stomach, face, _everything. _After a moment, confusion struck his face when he saw nothing. Internal, maybe?

"What is it, son?" He said it in a rush.

"It's Sam."

John's mouth hung open, his eyebrows forming into a sharp "V". "What? Dean, what happened to Sam?" He ran to Dean and, in his haste, nearly threw Dean to the ground when he put his hands on his shoulders. It did not deter him. "What happened?"

Dean stared for a moment, reading John's shocking reaction. He had a tight grip on Dean's shoulders, the pressure alone leaving them aching for release. He said nothing, however, as he realized that, not only was John angry, he was scared.

Or was he? Dean was a good analyst, he knew that, but these conditions were not only an obstacle to read people, but to stay _sane_. John had now progressed to shaking Dean by the shoulders, slinging his upper torso forward and back at rapid speed. Dean's thought process was getting more jumbled with each shake, his brain bouncing around in his skull, flopping around like a pet fish going bye-bye down the toilet.

But of course, if the older man wasn't scared, why would he be acting this way?

"D-Dad. S...Stop."

The shaking stopped, and the strong hands left his shoulders in such a fury Dean would've have forgotten they were there if not for the tremors running through him. Dean gripped his head, feeling the remnants of his brain being carefully put back in place. "Nothing's wrong. Well, not really."

"What do you mean 'not really'? What the hell does that even mean?"

Dean gave his father a good evaluation. "It doesn't mean anything, Dad, everything's fine."

John waited, reading him as Dean did the same. John appeared questionable at best, as if he didn't even _believe _Dean's words. Hell, were Dean's words even the truth? Frankly, they were far from it.

But why would it even _matter _to John was the better question.

"I want to know everything that happened today," John said, his posture very easily compared to a stone's.

"Why do you even care, Dad?" Dean snapped, "You don't even know the kid."

John flinched, grabbing Dean by the shoulder and, not painfully, tossed him onto the nearest bed. With his eyes burning into Dean's, he uttered, "Talk."

Dean considered standing his ground. Should he allow himself to be interrogated and just take it until it was his turn? Or, should he lead the interrogations, hope the wrath of John didn't befall him, and work with the information if he was in the safe zone?

Damn it. The former sounded like a better plan.

Dean's teeth still ground together with the idea of John leaving him in the dark about Sam, but he, reluctantly, did as he was told. He started from the very beginning of the day, how he went over to The Braders and found Sam serving up some customers, and how he found Sam's injuries - his left hand wrapped with gauze and the bruise on his jaw.

"What happened to him?" John asked, _almost _visibly seething. As Dean has always known, he learned from the best, and the best didn't mess up often.

Dean shrugged. "I have no idea. He told me not to worry about it." _But how could I _not _worry about it? _Dean thought to himself. He'd been intrigued with Sam the second he saw him. He was different, special, and there Sam was, injured, _again, _and he told Dean it didn't matter, that he shouldn't worry. What the hell?

John said nothing, so Dean took his silence as an invitation to continue. He told all about Jacob, the confidence at the beginning, desolation at the end, his and Sam's relation, the scratch on his cheek.

"Sam didn't look happy about that scratch. I just don't get it, he was _furious_." Dean began to sag in his stance, deflating, and went over to sit on the bed closest to the door, falling on it with a plop. "I can't explain it."

John joined Dean on the bed beside him, keeping his body facing him, his eyes on Dean's at all times. Completely calm. Dean began to feel angered at his father's superiority, if only for a moment. Yeah, it was great to have a kickass father, one that you could reply on physically, but he needed to know what John was feeling, thinking, right now, and all he was offering up was a goddamn mask.

Once again offered no afterthoughts on the subject, Dean once again noticing this as a one-sided conversation, continued, finally discussing his little outbreak and Sam's note on the Impala. After he had accounted for detail remembered of the day, he took a deep breath.

Now that he had finished the dreadful, agonizingly long discussion, John had to say something on the subject. There was no way around it. They couldn't just sit there and let Dean do all the talking anymore; Dean needed answers, too.

John put a hand to his chin and tapped it lightly a few times. "Where do you two meet?"

"Tomorrow morning on the playground."

John nodded. His leg bounced nervously against the hardwood floor, an action not often on display by the great John Winchester. His fists would clench, then unclench, then clench again. The process seemed to go on forever, and it left Dean on edge. What had changed since five minutes ago? What happened to the emotionless, I-fear-no-pain kickass father he had always known? Had he just softened up, rain pouring down on a mound of clay, finally slipping through the cracks? What was going through his head right now?

John Winchester may be slipping, but that damn mask was not. The rest of him may not be, but the face was 100% stoic, 0% emotion. Why was the comparison in his face and body so substantially_ substantial_. Why wasn't it more balanced, a little lip twitching and a little fist clenching, make everybody happy? Oh no, never that.

Dean pleaded, "Dad, can you please _say _something? You're driving me insane." And it was the truth. This was _Sam _they were talking about, not some senile old man with a death wish on the street, criminal record and all. _Sam, _the kid he cared about more than he'd ever like to admit, the selfless kid who would give anything to make his baby brother happy, the kid that Dean _almost _looked up to - in terms of… bad experiences, at least_._

Very rarely has Dean thought this, much less said it, but he liked the idea of saying Sam was _his _Sammy. Yeah yeah, that sounded perverted as hell. But it wasn't _like _that. The thing was, Dean didn't know how else he could describe it without being way off the mark. He knew he didn't own Sam, he was fully aware of that and naturally didn't mind it, but the idea of knowing him well enough to be able to, it made him avaricious, covetous, controlling.

"What'd you find out his last name was?"

Dean jerked out of his daze in a heartbeat, registered his words after a moment and, for as many times as he could count, was yet again confused. Dean's heart rate began to rise; this was frustrating, very frustrating. It was like pulling teeth with this man, you never get anything done and you always end where you started. Why was he going back to Sam's name? Why the hell did it even _matter_?

Why the hell was he being kept in the dark?

Dean growled, stomping across the room to a newspaper-cluttered wall. "God_damn _it_, _Dad, it's getting so hard to talk to you. I have no _fucking_ idea what his last name is, so why don't you tell me why it's so important?"

He was about the swivel around, stare his father down with murderous eyes, when a section of bold print on a newspaper on the wall caught his attention. He took a few steps closer, his eyes squinting on the title. "30 Year Old Woman Found Bloodless in Bath". How could a werewolf do something like _that_? They had claws, not a damn straw to suck blood out with.

Dean's eyes traced over the newspaper article beside that one, reading "Man Committed Suicide By Bullet to the Brain".

None of these articles were related to a werewolf at all. They were just random hunts they had probably done in the past.

Not long ago Dean had thought the pieces of the puzzle were finally beginning to fall into place, but he just realized he wasn't creating a puzzle at all. He was creating a fucking nightmare.

Dean turned to John with a suddenly indefinable expression. Pointing to the articles, he nearly choked on his rage, "Dad, what the hell is going on here?" After a pause, he laughed with dark humor. "We're not even hunting a werewolf, are we?"

John looked up to Dean, who was now standing directly in front of him, looking down on his father with a murderous glare. Hell, at this point, _Dean_ didn't know what he looked like. All he knew was that someone was lying to him and that he was going to get some answers. The easy way or the hard way.

John sighed loudly, running a hand through his hair. He scrunched his eyebrows, a faint sign the mask had dwindled at least a small fraction, and rubbed his face tiredly. _Nervous much? _Dean thought coldly. _Good._

_"_You're right," John finally said. "We're not hunting a werewolf."

"They why did you tell me we _were_?" Dean asked harshly. If his father thought he was getting off easy he was in for a big surprise.

John pulled a hand back through his hair, sighing. "I…I needed an excuse to, to come here." He stood, facing Dean. "There's something I need to tell you, something important."

Dean tilted his head a little at John's heir of...what? Resignment? Unable to avoid the inevitable?

"Okay. Go ahead." Dean said curtly, pings of apprehension hitting him. He folded his arms across his chest, possibly to hide the trembling he felt and possibly to look intimidating. He wanted to sit down, _needed _to sit down, but he'd have to do without right now. As John had said, this was important, and even if John hadn't said it verbally, his eyes sure as hell did.

John let out a breath. "You...do you remember when you were four? And there was a fire?" Dean nodded. "Well, in that fire, we - you and I - we lost more than just your mom." John paused, looking over at Dean. He stood there, tense, and confused as hell. How many times a day can one be confused? An infinite amount apparently because there Dean stood, waiting for it to click in his brain, waiting for the light bulb to come on, but it never did. It must be broken.

"I don't-" Dean stopped. He'd just sit back, wait for John to finish.

John noticed Dean postponing the inquisitions and seemed appreciative of it. He let out another breath. "Or, at least, we _thought _we lost more than your mother." John turned to look at the shimmery glow of the wall where the sun hit, a glow of light echoing, illuminating around the room. He inhaled more deeply this time, his sigh sounding every bit as reluctant as possible. "You have a brother."

Dean just continued to stand there, staring at his father as if he had three heads and a tentacle sticking out of his ass. At first, he was wondering what day it was because, damn, this was a good April Fools joke. He studied the words and the sentence structure, Dean realized, it just didn't make sense. Dean, have a _brother? _Not possible. John probably just wasn't paying attention to what he was saying, a small mishap on his part. No biggie, Dean would decipher it.

But, even then, all arrangements lined up in a queue, it was a jumbled mess, the words so dislocated they were almost a different language. Damn, this was one fucked up puzzle.

"Dad, I don't understand what-"

John interupted. "Dean, listen to what I'm telling you. _Sam _is you're brother."

Dean's eyes squinted. "That, that can't be right. You're lying to me."

John placed his hands firmly on Dean's shoulders. "That's why I lied about the werewolf, son. I found your brother here and I knew we needed to finally be together again."

It finally seemed to click, the light bulb bursting with electricity. He finally understood. He was beginning to feel light-headed. Dean swayed on his feet, suddenly feeling a strong pair of hands grip his forearms, guide him onto the bed. He couldn't say anything, his brain wouldn't work, his mouth wouldn't move. He licked his lips feverishly, but still he was speechless. His teeth began to clatter together, creating a _clonk clonk _in the utter silence of the room. It gave him something to listen to, something to tell him this was _real. _He almost wanted to pinch himself, just to be sure.

Sam, the kid he's been watching from afar, the kid with the bad childhood, was his brother. His _brother. _Dean wasn't sure how to feel. Should he feel happy, ecstatic that he can now feel normal looking out for Sam? Instead of acting like a stalker he could just be a concerned sibling, right? Or should he feel sad? Feel sad that, for twenty years, he had been lied to and betrayed by his own father. Well, technically, sixteen years. He had been so young, he couldn't remember his own mother having a baby, his baby brother.

But he did remember now, some images muddied through the years and some as though they had happened yesterday. He remembered giving baby Sammy a bath, remembered tucking him into his cradle and lightly kissing his forehead, like he was a fragile, defenseless baby angel.

Now that everything had finally settled in his pit, Dean began to feel happy, so goddamn happy. Right now, it didn't matter to him that John had lied. He'd worry about that later. He finally got the brother he had always wanted, and it was a _biological _brother, a brother that he could relate to in hopefully more than a few ways.

He ran his hands through his hair excitedly. "Does Sam know?" he asked, smiling up at John.

His smile dwindled considerably at John's expression. The man said nothing as his mouth formed into a grim line, more than enough for Dean to understand. As far as he knew, silence was just as well of an answer, just not the one he wanted.

"Well...well, how is he going to find out? I can't just _tell _him, he wouldn't believe me."

John looked away.

Dean wasn't ready for another answer, wasn't ready for more fucking silence. He picked up his jacket, got his keys, and walked out the door.

**SNSNSNSNSNSNSN**

-I'd like to take the time to thank some of my avid reviewers right now. I havent seemed to do a great job of that, due to being busy or potential teenage laziness, I'm not sure. But here we go: these are the people that update every week, write nice, thoughtful reviews, and, though I hate to admit, but am willing to lose a little dignity over, are reviewers I personally enjoy reading from. The reviews can be in depth at times, short and sweet on others, and everything else in between. I read every single one, and don't think I don't apprecaite it. I am willing to listen to criticism, though I don't believe I've gotten anything that isn't constructive, and love the time they put into their reviews. You'd think that something so easy to write doesnt affect a person but, believe me, that assumption is wrong on so many levels.  
So here we go: (no particular order here, folks)  
-shagalecki  
-cuddlygirl18  
-cutelildevil818  
-Iceprincess89023  
-XxTypoMasterxX  
-vonnie836  
-ephiny63 (who wrote one BIG review for all the chapters. hee hee, very fun to read. big is good!)  
-vampyfreak  
-fortune-phantom  
-H.P. Obsessed Muggle  
-Ashes of the Phoenix  
-and some of the anonymous reviewers:  
-PrincessSugars111  
-lola544

I appreciate all the love you have been sending me and only hope it continues. Thanks so much for sticking with me all this time!


	14. Chapter 14

_**Luv Ya like I love my pet fish Fluffy!  
**_P.S.- I don't have a pet fish! **=O  
-**This is getting old isn't? Lol.

**ENJOY!**

-The next day-

He had to clear his thoughts. There had to be something he could do to just get _away_. Just for a moment. He was so tired of thinking all the time, tired of just playing the game that was life, placing his pieces strategically, readying himself for later consequences further down the road, if there were any.

But that's what life was, right? Strategy. Plan ahead, be better than your opponent, beat them at their own game, win. That's exactly what Dean had to do, beat the odds, leave an imprint. But there was one problem. One bigass problem, actually. He didn't have a concrete enemy; at least, not one he could see. His enemy was _God, _that damn bigot that gloated about all His great creations and how much better He was than the rest of mankind_. _He was shunning Dean, smiting him, and was finally demanding the repentance Dean wouldn't dare offer. That'd be offering his soul to something he didn't love, didn't cherish.

But what else was he supposed to do? What was that saying he used to always hear? "If you can't beat them, join them"? Maybe Dean should just flow with the current instead of fight it all the time. Civil disobedience. If life gets thrown at you, don't throw it back in it's face, don't change course. Just stand there and take it.

Dean wanted to be like that, wanted to be like that so damn bad. Just be able to not give a damn where he ended up ten years from now. Stick with the present and deal with the future only when it too becomes the present. It sounded hard, with all the surprises thrown your way because of lack of preparation, but it would have been so simple. Just glide through life on a roller coaster going at your own pace.

The worst part of it, though, was the aftermath. That was the reason Dean would never allow himself to live that way, the laid back, "I don't give a damn" way. What would your ignorance cause? What consequences would you suffer through because you had decided to take the easy route which, in truth, isn't all that easy for long.

Dean drove in silence, currently unaware of his destination. What road should he choose now? Prepare himself for Sam's response when he told him they were family, plan it all out, or just go with the flow, tell him straight-out and hope Sam didn't misjudge him. The latter would have been chosen in an instant, if not for the aftermath. Would Sam hate him, think Dean was playing some cruel joke? Leave town and never speak to him again? And where did Jacob come into play with all this? Was he Dean's brother, too? No, definitely not. Sam was just a baby when he was taken, and Jacob was several years younger than him.

Dean drove into the lot of The Braders, just now realizing where he was as he parked at the front entrance. Was this really the only place he had been to besides the motel since he and John had arrived here? Was he really that obsessed?

Yes.

He strode into The Braders, his brain already putting his body on auto-pilot to do a quick search for Sam's presence. He sensed nothing and saw nothing. He did see Troy, however, and walked over to the bar, taking a seat on the stool in front of him.

Troy looked up. "Oh, hey man. You come looking for Sam?"

Troy placed a beer in front of Dean, which he accepted lethargically. He twirled it around in his hands, using it as a distraction of sorts. "Not really. I just don't have anywhere to be right now." He shrugged. "So I'm here."

Troy nodded, eyeing a group of rowdy men in the back before turning back to Dean. "Fair enough."

In truth, Dean didn't know what he was doing here. Was he here for Sam, or a well-known, familiar place to stay a while. He got the feeling that, even if he hadn't consciously known it, he had come hoping Sam would be here.

"What are Sam's working hours this week?" The question seemed to spill out of Dean's mouth without his consent, and he wanted to cry out in aggravation for his own incompetence. He tried to rewind, force it back down his throat so the it never occurred. _Why_ had he asked that? He hadn't even been _thinking _about that, yet there it goes, out his mouth and into a world of shit.

Troy didn't seem too surprised, though. "Well, tomorrow Sam's working an all-nighter, if he's up for it. 9pm-3am."

Dean just nodded, appreciative Troy didn't get defensive for his friend. He took a swig of beer, purposely appearing lethargic and not nearly as intent on Troy's words as he really was. Troy accepted Dean's interest, but he didn't want to seem like a damn pedophile either.

Troy continued. "Wednesday through Friday he's working from 6pm-9pm. He's got this weekend off, though, which doesn't happen for him often." He sighed lightly. "With all the shit that's happened to that kid lately…" Troy shook his head in disgust. "That wasn't the best I could've done for him, that's for sure."

Dean nodded, unsure if he should respond. He took another sip of his beer, peering around the room. It was early in the morning and already people were chugging beers down their throat, making bets who could drink a whole keg fastest, seeing who could drink longest without passing out. In this world, there sure were a lot of dumbasses. At first sight of The Braders, Dean had seen the bar as a fairly innocent, decent place. Now, with better eyes, he could see it was like all the others, not that it surprised him. It shouldn't. It's not the bar that acquires it's reputation, it's the people in it.

He looked at his watch. _8:49_. He took one last swig before setting it down on the marble tabletop, along with five bucks. He gave Troy a quick farewell before heading off to the playground.

He parked near the playground and from the driver's seat he could see Sam swinging slowly on the swing-set he had sat in previously, looking forward and staring at nothing, the occasional strand of brown hair sweeping into his face. He made no move to remove them, his stony expression unnervingly unplaceable.

Next to him on the swings was Jacob, humming light tunes while moving his head side to side with the rhythm, rocking back and forth a fraction faster than Sam had chosen to. Why had Sam decided to bring Jacob? Was there a particureason? Dean absently assumed Sam would have left the little squirt at home, with their parents, or guardians, whatever.

He looked the two over silently. Sam had already sensed his presence, Dean suspected, and was surprised when he still hadn't looked his way. Was Sam so spaced out he hadn't heard or felt Dean's presence?

Dean shrugged, deciding it didn't really matter, and got out of the Impala, shutting the door fiercely in the hopes of earning some sort of reaction, anything from the audience. He did, just from the wrong person. Not that he minded Jacob's attention set on him, he wanted to know all about him too and, hopefully, he would. But not _now. _Not a day ago he'd found out Sam was his _brother, _his flesh and blood, Dean couldn't _not _be curious about him.

Jacob's ears perked up, and he looked over to where Dean stood by his car. He still had the ragged scratch going across his cheek, a grotesque blood red against pale skin. Jacob gave him a shy, hesitant wave. Dean flashed a bright smile, waving back.

Eagerly, Dean walked up to them and took a seat on one of the swings, trying to force Sam's eyes on him. Dean sat on Sam's left, while Jacob occupied Sam's right, putting Sam in between the two. Dean waved at Sam. "Hey Sam," Dean said, wondering, waiting.

To his surprise, Sam turned to face Dean, plastering a smile on his face. "Hello." He looked over to his brother -not_ his brother_, Dean thought absently- and pointed a thumb at him, "To keep this formal, this is Jacob. My brother."

Dean nodded in greeting and Jacob did the same, a small smile on his face. Sam watched with secretive fascination, a smile of his own beginning to creep on his lips.

Now that introductions were over all smiles disappeared, leaving a rough, coarse scar on the outer surface of the perimeter, their bubble of safety. What now? Did Dean ask for the answers himself, or let Sam start it off on his own.

Sam answered that for him. "So I guess you came here for answers, correct?" He held the expression that, though he had asked curiously, told Dean that he already knew what the response was. It seemed like he was already trying to decide how it would all start, how he'd begin his explanation, even if Dean hadn't even spoken.

Dean nodded. "It would be preferred."

Sam agreed thoughtfully, nodding as he watched the clouds above them travel east. "So, what do you want to know first?"

Dean sat on the swing-set, kicking up a little dirt beneath his feet. What did he want to know? Now that he was finally here, finally able to get the answers he'd wanted so long, he couldn't think of anything to ask. He looked over at Sam. "What happened to your hand? Your cheek?" Dean gestured to Sam's bandaged left hand and bruise, watching Jacob grimace as he did so, a sad look on his face.

Sam did nothing for a few moments, probably deciding _exactly _how to word his response. That sounded like a very "Sam" thing to do.

Sam turned his gaze to the passing cars ahead of them. "It was my father. He's not my real father, just a foster parent." _That's because your real dad's with me. _Dean thought. "He'd gotten himself drunk, went on a rampage around the house." His hands tightened around the chains, his knuckles turning a malignant white, chalky color. "He went after Jacob, chasing him around the house with a razor in his hand." He shrugged indifferently, but Dean could see the tightness in Sam's muscles, the stiffness in Sam's jaw. Jacob was looking at the dirt at his feet, shame playing over his face like a shadow, clouded and attempting protection.

Sam continued, his voice sounding like the breaking point was near. "Just before Dad cut him, I pushed Jacob out of the way, threw him on the couch." Sam lifted his injured hand, then began removing the bandaged with his right. "Eric got me in the back, pushed me into the fireplace." Unveiling it, the hand was a black and red mess, the aftermath of fire smoldering over his skin. It was repulsive, his hand reeking of rotten, burned flesh, a few nails chipped away, and Dean wanted no more. He held his hand over nose, and Sam gingerly put the bandage back on. Dean looked over to Jacob, who was still looking away, his head now twisted purposefully in the opposite direction.

Dean grimaced, his own body mentally nearing its breaking point. "That's, that's…" Dean paused. What does he _say _to that?

Sam took Jacob's hand in his, given off what comfort he had for his little brother, _supposed _little brother. Jacob turned to look at him, tears in his eyes. "It was my fault. If I had gotten out of the way. If I-"

"Stop it," Sam said forcefully. His forehead was creased with anger. "Don't say that. Ever."

Jacob nodded sadly, resigned. "'M sorry."

After a second, Sam's expression softened. He moved his right hand out from under Jacob's and ruffled his hair playfully. A slight smile appeared on his lips. "It's okay, little brother." Jacob smiled.

At that moment, Dean felt out of place, like he didn't _belong_ in their presence. In the scheme of things, it occurred to Dean it didn't matter he was Sam's biological brother, not at all. In Sam's eyes, Jacob was his blood brother, his _real _brother, and Dean was just the curious neighbor, sticking his head in people's personal lives. He didn't want to be remembered like that, not with Sam.

Dean blinked. "How old are you again?"

Sam blinked also, rising an eyebrow. "Sixteen. Why?"

Of course. Sixteen. He'd lived the life of a fifty year old but he's only six-fucking-teen_. _Dean could feel his facial expressions hardening, his fists tightening painfully against the chains. He had expected it. Sam, his _brother_, was only four years younger than himself, abused by a father who doesn't love him and beaten by a group of men that wanted nothing but revenge. It wasn't fair, not to Sam, not even to Jacob. Sam had to do all the daily necessities that his father _should_ be doing.

But instead his father was out playing Good Guy, Bad Guy with Dean.

Dean shrugged as apathetically as he was capable. "Just curious."

Sam saw through it but nodded. Dean considered that Sam already realized Dean's feelings for his age, why he was unhappy Sam was so young. He expected Sam to read his thoughts, he was _Sam._

"And you don't go to school because you have to take care of Jacob. Correct?"

Sam nodded but said nothing, stealing a glance at Jacob, the kid's head down. Dean noticed this, too, and also said nothing, keeping his thoughts focused on the next question.

But instead he asked something so uncalled for he wanted to slap himself and die. "Were you raped?"

Dean hadn't been able to hold in that _goddamn fucking stupid inappropriate _question. Yes, he _wanted _to know, that about it on occasion, but never had he considered himself a good enough acquaintance of Sam's to _ask _about something like that.

Sam flinched, Jacob even more so, and Dean quickly recovered in an attempt to right his wrongs.

Not like a fuck up like that could be _righted._

"Oh my fucking God, I am _so _sorry. I, I don't even know why I asked that. I shouldn't have, really. I, I mean I heard Troy, and well he was talking about it with this guy Randall, and I thought maybe it wasn't true, but I didn't know for sure, and…" Dean stopped, wishing he would just s_hut. Up. _He couldn't even begin to emphasize how sorry he was. Dean felt like the biggest asshole in the world and there was no way, _no way_, he could make up for a question like that.

Sam's shoulder muscles weren't as tense as when Dean had asked the question, but he still looked hurt. Dean felt like crying at the emotions playing through Sam's facial features. They used to be so _hidden _but, Dean guessed, he had brought all those negative emotions out all by himself.

Sam's emotions morphed into something a little more simplistic. Sam laughed the barest, most primitive of laughs. "What an odd question to be asked."

Dean swiftly replied, "I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to ask that, I swear. I really don't know how that happened and I _really _don't think I have any right to know something so personal."

Sam licked his lips, keeping his hair in his face. "Do you, uh, do you have any other questions?"

Dean's heart ripped in two at Sam's dismissal. _He let you off easy, _Dean screamed to himself, _You should be grateful he's not leaving your sorry ass. _

Dean clamored through his brain to find some sort of replacement, find something to make his last question _go away._

"Who taught you how to fight?" Several days ago, when Sam went up against that big guy at The Braders, he had fought with an elegance very few people could achieve in their whole lives. If someone taught him how to fight, that person was strong as hell.

Sam seemed somewhat relieved with the new conversation. "I'm not sure what his name was. It was a long time ago, before I met Jacob."

Dean kept it going. "So he's not _really _you're brother."

Sam shook his head. "Maybe not biologically, but I like to think he's my brother. We take care of each other."

"Yeah, you two do look alike. With the hair," he said, moving his hand over his head dramatically.

Sam laughed, and Dean thought that was the one thing he'd done right all day. Yeah, it seemed a little forced, but Sam did seem genuinely amused, like he'd noticed Jacob replicating Sam's hairstyle too. Dean's heart sang from the soft noise, his mind subconsciously memorizing the sound, the vibrations going off in Dean's head. Had Sam ever truly, whole-heartedly laughed before? Probably not.

But Dean hoped to see it one day.

"May I ask you something, Dean?"

Dean looked up to see Sam swinging lightly, pacing back and forth slowly, his feet playing with little pieces of rock in the sand, kicked them and rolling them onto their backs before flipping them back over.

_God please don't be about my fuck up._

"Sure. Go for it," Dean said casually.

Sam paused another second, still eyeing the ground. "Why do you care so much?"

Sam, for the most part, seemed to have recuperated from Dean's "rape" question, thank fucking _God _for that. Dean watched Sam, his heart aching to tell him everything. Truthfully, before he found out he and Sam were brothers, he didn't know why the hell he'd cared so much. He wasn't usually that protective of anyone he didn't know, especially if they weren't directly related to the hunt. But when he found out about their kinship he understood his feelings better, understood what it was like to be an older sibling, to care for someone other than their dad, to want to protect them.

Dean still hadn't said anything, he was hesitating too much. Sam would notice. He racked his brain for something, anything, he could use as an excuse. Could he just say he didn't know, that he just felt this weird need to protect him? Was that going into stalking territory? He was taking too long. _Just say something._

Sam beat him to it. "Don't lie to me," he said seriously, his eyes cold. "If you don't want me to know, that's fine, but don't lie to me."

_That's fuck up number two, _Dean thought grimly.

Dean's mouth was in the shape of a thin, unsatisfied line. Why hadn't he said something sooner, make it look at least reasonably believed. Well, maybe that wouldn't have worked either. Even if he had said something entirely logical, Sam would've seen right through it. Like he always does.

Dean nodded, unsure of what to say. Jacob was now watching him coldly, possibly playing the odds in his head on whether he could take Dean or not. He held a skeptical gaze, almost a murderous gaze, while Sam's was completely blank. Dean looked away.

"I do have a reason, and a good one. But..." Dean stopped, getting his bearings. Why did he say that? Did he actually plan on telling Sam he was his brother, in front of Jacob? Should he? Would he have another chance to tell him? Soon Dean would have to get working on the hunt and he didn't know if he'd ever see Sam again. Sam wasn't a hunter. He'd been through enough brutal reality for one lifetime, Dean couldn't bear to put him through any more.

But what other solution was there?

Both Sam and Jacob looked at him with poorly contained curiosity, hoping he'd continue whatever he was saying. Of course. They wanted to know why Dean cared so much because no one else ever did, no one cared their life sucked. Except Dean. He cared, he was different, as he remembered Sam telling him once before.

"I...Sam, there's something I need to tell you." He stopped, looking at the dirt below him. "I know this will be hard to believe, it still is for me, but you have to hear me out." He gulped. "There...there's something I found out, just yesterday actually." He stole a glance at Sam, who had stopped rocking, his gaze stoically fixed on Dean's face. "It was my dad who had told me and...funny thing about that, because he's your dad, too."

Dean looked up for Sam's reaction. He didn't know what he had expected, whether he thought Sam would be shouting curses or punching Dean in the face or calling him a liar but…but it wasn't this, not this calm. Sam sat on his swing, not swinging, not speaking, hell, maybe not even breathing. He was still, his mouth open slightly, his gaze turning more into a stare. He was searching, scouring every inch of Dean's face to find some fatal mistake, some big lie Dean had said. Something his voice didn't behold of, something misleading to Dean's hard facts. Something to tell him different.

Dean continued, his voice beginning to quiver. "Sam." He blinked, hard. "You're my brother."

_Fuck up number three._ And he was out.

**SNSNSNSNSN**

Well there you go. Very much enjoyed writing this, though some of the emotions were ridiculously hard to explain. still fun though, hope you approve.

Hope you enjoyed. Until next time!


	15. Chapter 15

_**Luv Ya like I love my pet fish Fluffy!!!!!! **_P.S.- I don't have a pet fish!!! **=O **

I have NO beta!! Sorry for the inconvenience!

hope u like it!!!!!

**ENJOY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!**

**_______________________**

Dean balanced Sam's reaction and, after one look, decided he _never _wanted to see Sam like that again. Ever. Unlike Sam's beautiful, wondrous laugh, he tried to eradicate it from his brain, erase it from his memory. It was beginning to leave a scar, one that could never be undone.

Sam was visibly shivering from the impact, as if a few punches to the gut were about to send him doubling over. Dean wanted to cry, he really did. The chains that kept the swing upright were jingling, Sam's hands loosely cupped around the thin supporting wire. If Sam had been standing, would have passed out? Dean begged that wasn't the case but, looking at Sam, watching him, it was hard, excruciating. Sam was in pain, physical pain, and Dean couldn't do anything about it. Because _he _had caused that pain. Why did he do that? Why didn't he leave him in the dark?

The possibility that Sam was shaking not out of fear but of shock was becoming a slim proposition. He wouldn't stop moving, he was just constantly in motion, what with his hands shaking and his body doing a dance. His eyes were staring straight ahead, but occasionally they would turn to watch Dean, softly inquiring with his mind "Is this the truth? Are you really my brother?" Maybe the prospect of Dean being Sam's brother was too much to handle. After 16 horrible years with a fucked up father, he found out that, all along, there was someone that could've saved him, lifted him from his living hell he was burrowed in all his life. That he had suffered throughout his whole life because his real family hadn't pucked up the courage to help. It was a frightening thought, and Dean hoped that wasn't what Sam was thinking.

But what else could it be? Was Sam afraid of the idea that _Dean _was his brother? Did Sam not want him in the equation, that when you added the two together it equaled more pain, more suffering? But why would Sam think that? Only minutes ago Sam had asked him why he cared so much, why he and Jacob mattered so much. That had to mean Sam realized Dean's rather obvious obsession with keeping him safe, keeping him _loved_.

But, could he really learn to love someone as a sibling, when he had been an only child all his life? Or, was what he had been doing with Sam that exact thing, love for a brother? Did he already know how to really love Sam as a brother, or was he working up to it? What would happen if Sam didn't love him back?

Sam had stopped shaking and was no looking at Dean intensely. His eyes held a little condemnation, still a little suspicion, and a lot of confusion. He had to be wondering, just had to be. Why didn't he know he had a brother? Why hadn't someone told him he had a brother?

Good question. Damn good question.

Dean hesitantly reached a hand out to Sam, wondering if it was a good idea. He placed it tentatively on Sam's shoulder, ready to feel the wrath. Surprisingly, it never came. Sam just continued with what he was doing, which was looking at the rough, coarse dirt at his feet and mushing it with the toe of his shoe lightly.

"I'm sorry no one ever told you" Dean said, eyeing Sam carefully. "I wish I had known sooner."

What Sam did next surprised even Dean, and he had seen a lot in his short life. Even though Dean didn't know it yet, it would change his life forever. Sam stood, wobbling on his feet a bit before straightening out. He turned to Dean and stepped closer to him until they were only inches apart. He leaned down to Dean's level, whom was still sitting, and held him arms out.

Sam hugged him.

Dean gasped, stupefied, as Sam wrapped his thin arms around him. What the-? Dean would be the first to tell you this hugging business made absolutely no sense on Sam's part. At that point, he didn't care. Dean began to bathe in Sam's warmth the instant they touched; he faintly noticed Sam's smell, it was odd mix of sweat, work, hardship, loneliness. He didn't even know loneliness had a smell, but it was a heavenly sensation nonetheless and he could just feel Sam gently relax into Dean's chest, his muscles loosening steadily.

Why did he hug him? _Still _hugging him? Was he trying to say that it was okay, that he accepted Dean as a brother? Dean felt jittery, his stomach bubbling with unknown excitement, and wrapped his arms around Sam's slim waist, pulling him close.

Still skittish, nearly trembling from his antsy emotions, he barely managed to steal a glance in Jacob's direction. When he did, however, he saw a small kid with a sad smile etched on his mouth. He was only happy because Sam was happy but, at the same time, he was dying inside. He must have gotten the feeling Sam would leave him, because he was crying, tears forming in his eyes and falling down his cheeks.

All high-strung anxiety gone, Dean motioned Jacob over with a hand, urging him over. Jacob seem surprised, but slowly edged closer to them, maybe a little skeptical. When he was standing beside them, Dean threw his arm on Jacob's shoulders and pulled him into the hug as well. Sam must have realized Jacob joined in, and instantly threw an arm around Jacob as well, playing ruthlessly with his hair. A giggle escaped Jacob's mouth as he threw his arms around the two.

The stayed in that position a long time, and Dean wondered what was going through Sam's head right now. Was he scared he would have to leave Jacob? Was he even willing to leave Jacob and, if he had to, who would he choose: Jacob or Dean? Dean hoped to think it would be a tough decision for even Sam to make, but he felt no optimism of this. Sam had known Jacob for years, took care of him just as long, and he just met Deana week ago, _maybe _a little longer.

Reluctantly, he let go of the two, instantly feeling a gaping hole in his arms. Trying his best to ignore this emptiness, he looked up at the two. They also stopping the embrace and were standing side-by-side, hand-in-hand.

"I want you to meet my dad. Our dad."

Sam offered up a warm smile, a _real _smile. Dean couldn't help but smile as well, his heart soaring. He got Sam to smile, _again. _

"Okay, when would you like me to meet him?"

Dean paused, looking up at the two. He could almost feel it; soon, they would be his life, the reason he breathed every breath, the reason he continued to love, to live. Sam's warm smile that could light up a room with the confidence of a bull and Jacob's dimply smile with the kind heart of a celibate priest. Soon, he would really love them.

Maybe he already did.

Dean stood up. "Right now." He turned them around and headed them to the Impala, silently urging them to come with him but also allowing escape. They would only meet John if they wanted to. In their life, Dean doubted they were ever given much choice in how to live, and Dean wanted to make sure they knew they had one now. It was completely up to them. To stay or leave.

They chose to stay.

Dean smiled as he got into the driver's seat, watching Sam get into the backseat with Jacob. Sam probably already knew he could've taken the passenger's seat, but chose the back to keep Jacob company. Dean didn't mind.

"Nice car" Jacob said, to Dean's surprise, as he eyed the fine leather seats and smooth internal refinements of the Impala. The little squirt hadn't said much, in Dean's presence at least, and Dean was happy to see him speak at all, much less on his own account. Sam seemed happy as well, but more discreetly so. He didn't show the burst of joy Dean felt, if he even had one, like Dean was. He was absolutely shining, his teeth glistening with pride. He felt he had Sam's friendship, for the most part at least, but had always believed it would be harder to gain Jacob's trust. Unlike Sam, he was younger, less knowledgeable, and therefore didn't know what to look for in a person, didn't know if he could trust a person like Sam did. Dean was more than willing to be patient.

"Thanks. I no doubt have to agree with you, squirt" Dean said with a smile. He revved up the car, left the playground parking lot, and headed for home.

-----------

They entered the motel room, Dean leading while Sam and Jacob followed a few feet back, hand-in-hand. Dean walked through the lobby and past the living room, then reached his destination. Presing the up button, he waited for the elevator doors to awaken from slumber. He threw a glance at the other two, whom were both observing the elevator with suspicion.

Thinking nothing of it, he heard a ding as the doors swung open. Dean climbed in, his boots thumping onto the hollow floor of the elevator as he entered. Just as he was about to press 4, however, he realized he was all alone in the small box. His eyes darted outside the elevator to see Sam and Jacob several feet back, still hand-in-hand, staring at the contraption. Jacob eyed the elevator, more accurately the confinements the elevator held, with a terror Dean didn't comprehend. His gaze shifted quickly over to Sam, who had been staring at the small space as well, before locking his eyes on Dean's. Dean instantly read the dubious, apprehensive, expression on the boy's face, eyeing Dean with a terror similar to Jacob's, but more fierce, more violent.

It stung Dean as he fully comprehended the situation, their actions. He felt a dark hole being deliberately placed inside his heart, swallow him from the inside, like he was being slowly eradicated from the earth until he was nothing. They thought he was leading them into some sort of trap, to kill them off, destroy what's left of their miserable lives. Sam's eyes, they would scar Dean forever. That look of mistrust, skepticism, physical and uncontrollable _pain_. It hurt Dean more than he would have ever liked to admit, and yes, it hurt like hell. It was as if a thousand pieces of glass were being thrust into him rapid fire, the sharp edges gnawing holes in his brain. And it was a _damn _lot of glass.

But it was true, all of it. After all this time, he thought he had gotten somewhere with Sam, he thought Sam had finally begun to trust him, maybe even enjoy his company. He noticed Dean cared, hadn't he? Why was it that Dean was placed so low on the chain-of-command in Sam's mind when he had fought so hard to protect him. Sam trusted him as much as he trusted Billy Bob off the street doing weed. Why?

Dean stood there, stiff. How would he explain to them what an elevator was, that he wouldn't harm them? He wanted them to trust him, but he couldn't do it by just taking them to the stairs, the obviously safer route. It wouldn't gain the trust he so desperately needed, just the delaying of mistrust.

Dean pointed to the general insides of the elevator. "This is an elevator. They're used as a quicker form of transportation. It'll get us up to the fourth floor of the motel faster than the stairs. It's safe." He stared Sam directly in the eyes. "I promise."

After a moment of Dean revealing his conscience, his soul, pouring it out to Sam, he seemed to see something. A spark of some sort, flickering on, then shutting off abruptly. Hope. Sam's eyes softened. Though there was barely any difference than five seconds ago it was a difference nonetheless. Dean took it as a victory.

Sam squeezed Jacob's hand, as if sending him a message through touch alone. Jacob looked up to see Sam offering him a small, calm smile. It was one of protection, love, a fiery sense of understanding and awareness any passersby would acknowledge at first glance with a sign of respect. They truly were brothers, biological or not.

Jacob nodded. Sam's smile widened. He led them toward the elevator, Sam holding Jacob's hand for comfort as he took slow, tentative steps forward, nearing closer and closer to the small box.

Dean tried to put himself in their position, understand there sense of wariness, caution. It would be a scary experience, and potentially hazardous on his part. What could very much make matters worse, what if Sam and Jacob had dealt with areas the size of the elevator. If they had been in confined areas similar to that of the elevator. What if they had once been kept there, trapped, with no one there to help?

At last, Jacob appeared in front of Dean, victorious. It was just another obstacle, though small, that he had overcome. Dean smiled softly, proudly. Jacob returned the smile, his white teething shining brightly at Dean. Sam watched the scene unfold, a bewildered and amazed expression on his face.

Dean pressed the 4 button on the number pad. The doors of the mechanically-sound contraption came from the sides and met in the middle, the two sides colliding with a small thud. Jacob's hand squeezed harder, tighter, around Sam's. Dean considered what was going through their minds. They were completely surrounded by steel walls in every direction, as if trying to engulf them like a massive tornado, taking everything from them and giving nothing in return but death and despair. It was fairly dark, a fluorescent out up above them, leaving only images of moving, shadowy outlines of people.

The elevator made a ding as the doors opened, welcoming the contestants to the next stage, the next test. At least, in their case it was.

Jacob left the elevator in a hurry, nearly dragging Sam along with him, fast enough to be considered abnormal by the average bystander, but slow enough not to lose too much dignity over. Not that Jacob cared, Dean thought. He was what? Ten? Eleven?

Dean kept a straight face as Jacob rushed down the hall, dragging Sam in a flurry. Rather, Sam was _allowing _himself to be dragged, but that didn't really matter. He was being dragged by his _kid _brother, and that was that.

Dean smiled brightly. "Yo, Jacob. Wrong way."

They turned around. Dean pointed to his right, which was another hallway with a whole other set of rooms. Jacob's mouth was in the shape of an "o" as he walked innocently back to Dean's position in front of the elevator.

"Oops."

Dean winked. Forgiven. He led them down the hall on the right, distantly wondering what he should do about Sam's hand. It was burnt to a crisp, he had to be hospitalized soon or it could get a bad infection. Dean wasn't going to allow that.

Arriving at his and John's motel room, he got his key card out and swiped it through the little machinery box above the door handle. Dean smirked inwardly, almost feeling the looks of curiousity from behind him as they considered what the "little machinery box" was for.

A moment after he swiped, the light flicked green. He opened up the door, feeling rather heavy all of a sudden. Like a dead weight was on his shoulders, pushing him down, holding him back. What were they going to say, once Sam finally met his true father? And Dean hadn't even told John they were coming, would he be angry to be caught by surprise like that? A thought struck him abruptly. Before. How had John known Sam was _his _Sam?

Yes, it was a random thought but, by God, was it so damn logical. There was no way, no way John could recognize Sam based only his blue eyes, no matter how spectacular. He and Dean had been separated when Sam was a baby and John couldn't possibly know what he looked like sixteen years later.

When the door was fully opened, the three were met with standing in the corner of the room, reading an article off the wall. He turned and, in an instant, his eyes went from regular normalcy to outright...terror? They were bulging out of their sockets, as if his eyes were begging freedom from their relentless master, to be released of such a burden.

"Dean...What the...fuck..." Was all that escaped John's lips, his gaze slipping from Dean to stare behind him, at Sam. Dean entered further into the room, allowing Sam and Jacob more entrance, also doing so to get a good view at Sam's expression. He had thought Sam would follow him, alongside Jacob, but no such thing occurred. His feet were glued in one spot, his eyes staring at John like he was a rabid, monkey-eating, mold-infested flamingo with a wart on his foot the size of Texas. It confused Dean, in a way that made him feel this was not just curiosity anymore, but more of morbid skeptical skepticism. What was with Sam? And John?

Sam mouth was opening, closing, then opening again, as if he were gulping for oxygen like he had been without it for weeks, months even. Dean hesitantly took a step in Sam's direction, Dean wasn't absolutely certain if it was to comfort Sam or himself, but Sam glared at him, throwing more daggers into Dean's mutilated and abused heart, warning him to stay back. He did as he was told. Sam held his gaze on Dean a moment later, to emphasis his priorities better, before turning to back at John. He took Jacob's hand in his again, and squeezed it, hard.

Sam licked him lips nervously. "John Winchester?"

**_______________________**

_HOPE U ENJOYED IT!!!!!!!! _im SSOOO sorry it took me a while to update, i was kinda in a hurry on this one. You wont believe what I did. But ill get straight to the important stuff. Long story short I kinda....well...i deleted the chapter...the WHOLE chapter. i was so pissed, so i kinda gave it up for a day, before starting it back up. i realized the first one i made may be significantly better than the one you read, but i couldn't really find what i had done differently to begin with. Cursed computers, they need to throw themselves off a cliff and fall onto a large dosage of TNT. Computer go boom.

okay, so Sam's hand was burnt pretty badly, as you are hopefully aware of to a certain extent. It has been brought to my attention by a beloved reviewer, _**vonnie836**_, that a burn like Sam's must be taken to the hospital soon after the injury occurred, or it could get infected badly, even enough for the victim to become very sickly. So basically, sometime hopefully next chapter, Sam will be taken to the hospital with a wonderfully concerned Dean. I havent concocted it all in my head yet, but thats the plan for right now.  
And, vonnie, i might have to take you up on your offer for assistance on Sam's burn because, lets face it, im not _that _educated in the likes of medical business. Thanks so much vonnie!! Ur loved more than you may think!!!!

REALLY appreciate the reviews from last chapter!! Lets do that again!!!!!!! =)

**NEW POLL!! (is it obvious i like polls??) WHO IS YOUR FAVORITE CHARACTER ON "LEFT TO DIE"??  
---im actually really curious about this one. I like knowing where you guys stand on the whole scheme of things. I have a feeling it would be Sam or Dean, those would probably be the first that come to mind, but hey, you never know. Err, _I _never know, if you don't vote!!**


	16. Chapter 16

**Love you like I love my pet fish Fluffy!!  
**_P.S.- I don't have a pet fish _=O

may have a beta, maybe, maybe not. Ill check it out!

**ENJOY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!**

**________________________  
**

"Sammy" John breathed. He gulped, his nervousness most prominent on his features. Sweat dribbled down his forehead, rolling down his cheek and off his chin. John rubbed it off before it fell to the floor, but everyone in the room saw it, and he knew it.

Sam let go of Jacob's hand as he menacingly crept in John's direction, his eyes glinting with something violent, some dark force treated only by the seeds of Satan. It was a never ending patch of grown shadows. "You..." His nose crumpled together in frustration, his hatred the dominant expression. No longer was he a stoic, not one bit.

And neither was John.

"You bastard" Sam seethed. He stood directly in front of John until their noses nearly touched, their faces only inches away. Dean wanted to break them up but, he felt that if he did do something disruptive it would ruin the one chance he had at the truth. Sam would be too melancholy to respond, since he found out _that_ man was his father, and John would be too damn stubborn to say anything, even under severe interrogation his mouth would be sealed.

"Sammy, come on, you know I didn't mean to." John took a step back, his hands held innocently in front of him. It struck Dean, knowing this was usually a sign of fear. "It was a long time ago."

Sam's face was turning red, as if he was burning from the inside. Dean imagined smoke coming out from his nose and ears, and it looked very much believable. Subconsciously, Dean stole a glance at Jacob to check out how he was doing. He appeared scared, his hands itching to shield his eyes. Whatever Sam and John knew, Jacob had been left in the dark, as was Dean.

Sam swirled, his fists tightly sewn together as if permanently etched to show most obvious resentment, and faced Dean in an instant. His eyes bore into Dean's, not so much deadly toward Dean but hateful curiosity. He pointed to John. "Do you love this man, Dean?"

Dean looked to his father, who had an almost sheepish look on his face. He was _embarrassed? _Was he not taking this seriously at all? Sam was getting _angry_, one of the myriad of emotions he wasn't allowed to display. Whatever was raising his blood pressure so much_ shouldn't_ have caused John to feel embarrassed, as though he had tripped on Sam's birthday cake when they were younger, or had been caught looking at porn on the Internet.

"Yes." Despite Dean's anger toward the man, he undeniably loved his father.

Sam's expression turned questionable, as if he believed Dean only said that because he was in his father's presence and he would be spanked if he stated the truth, which would be stating his hatred for the man. Another look in Dean's eyes, however, got him thinking, Dean could tell. He couldn't understand why Dean loved him so much, why he would be willing to die for a man Sam believed to be horrid and despicable.

Sam turned to take another look at John or, more like stare. He bore into John's eyes, his gaze never leaving John's and the possiblity of lack of blinking on Sam's part was undeniably high at that point.

After a long time, Sam finally broke the silence. He took the few steps necessary to be within John's reach and, unexpectedly, punched him, hard, in the jaw. John gasped loudly as the friction pushed him into the wall, his head bumping into it with a loud thud, taking articles with him as they scattered and floated lightly to the floor. Dean rushed to his father, almost expecting to see a bloody and mutilated or completely missing face. His jaw was red and raw and, soon, it would become that of a large bruise, purplish and painful. Joy.

Dean looked at Sam expectantly. "What the fuck was that for?" He looked back to his father, whose face was scrunched in pain, soft groans escaping him as his eyes worked to clear themselves from their haziness.

Sam looked indifferent about the matter, maybe even happy the way it all played out. This aggravated Dean for some reason. Obviously, John had done something stupid to insult Sam, his brother, but there was a line that was not to be crossed, like some unwritten law known to the world. "If you know what's best for you, don't hurt John Winchester. An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth." But he wouldn't-- couldn't-- hurt Sam, his mind wouldn't allow him. Hurting Sam would be hurting himself.

"Sam, answer me" Dean said a little too loudly. Sam still replied with silence, while a tear rolled down Jacob's cheeks. Dean's expression softened, wishing he hadn't said it so forcefully. He looked back at John, was sitting up and recovering nicely. He was staring up at Sam, who was now staring right back. Once again, Sam appeared indifferent but, with Sam, appearances were more often than not wrong, and John had anger glinting in those devilish eyes, his shoulders tensing for action. It was a look Dean had never seen on John's wear, it didn't fit the fatherly description at all.

"We should go" Sam said, grabbing Jacob lightly by the hand and leading him quickly to the door. By the time they had left, Dean was on his feet in a flash, prepared to chase them down if he had to. He turned back to John.

"Will you be-" Dean started.

"I'm fine, Dean. Go get them."

Dean nodded and ran out the door, not completely positive what John meant when he said "go get them". He shook all pessimistic thoughts from his head as he burst out of the motel, the cool air hitting him. Searching anxiously, he found Sam and Jacob walking hand-and-hand about fifty yards west, probably heading home. Dean raced after them then, two seconds later, stopped in his tracks. He had a better plan. _I can trail behind them and meet their "dad". Teach him a lesson. _Yes, that was a plan. He'd finally find himself face-to-face with the person that nearly cremated Sam's hand and put a long scratch on Jacob's cheek. He'd get his revenge.

He crept toward the forest on the edge of the road, next to the sidewalk where Sam and his kid brother walked hand-in-hand, and hid behind a colossal tree in the shallow part of the forest, located a few meters behind the two. His heart was pumping rapidly in his chest, like it wouldn't to be freed from it's owner. _Another day, but not today. Can't be today. _This was the day the man on the top of his "Time to Die Bitch List" was going to answer for everything he's done, reconcile for his actions. Today he was going to Hell.

He was as constantly aware of the twigs and crunchy leaves as mind bombs placed on the ground. And, if he stepped on one he'd alert Sam's presence, thus, would explode like he _did _step on a mind bomb. Dean hoped to God, or whatever higher level of power existed, that he wasn't loud enough for them especially, Sam to hear.

He continued lurking from a distance, watching them talk quietly amongst themselves, Jacob's hands occasionally flailing through the air as he told something dramatic to Sam.

Then Sam whispered something quietly in Jacob's ear. He listened, squinting his eyes in disbelief or maybe confusion at the words. Sam whispered a few more words before Jacob, rather discreetly for a 10 or 11 year old, looked behind them, searching for something...

Dean ran behind the closest tree he could find, which happened to be too thin to cover his frame. He cursed as Jacob fixed his gaze on Dean out in the distance, peeking from behind the tree, then turned away speedily, flushed. _Fuck. Now what?_ Dean grimaced as Jacob began whispering inaudibly in Sam's ear, to which he nodded. Whatever they were talking about had to involve Dean, he could feel it. And, even if he couldn't feel it, it was kind of obvious.

He was considering giving himself up, so Sam or Jacob wouldn't think was trying something. He was the good guy and being on Sam's side was the best way to go if he wanted he ligaments to stay attached. Not that he couldn't take Sam or anything preposterous like that...

Dean had been waiting for the moment when Sam alerted him of his known presence, but it never came. What were they waiting for, to see if he would willingly admit what he was doing, lessen the punishment for him somehow? Dean continued trailing behind them, a little deeper into the forest to stay out of sight, until Sam and Jacob reached a rundown house, looking as though it wound collapse at any moment. It seemed to be made of a wood so thin that it was a wonder how it stood, slanted albeit, but it did the job.

Sam walked up the steps and reached the door. Dean's keen eyes didn't miss how Sam pushed Jacob behind him as he knocked on the door, two times fast, then another, more delayed. A signal of some sort. He squinted in search of a face as the door was opened. A coarse hand came from inside the dilapidated house to wrap its fingers around Sam's shoulder, violently hauling him into the house. Jacob, frightened, rushed in to protect himself from the rough hand, as well as to possibly protect is own bigger, more experienced brother.

Dean flew out of his hiding spot amongst the trees, no longer giving a damn how many twigs he stepped on. It felt like he didn't get there nearly as fast as he had hoped, _prayed_, for, as if someone held a remote to his face and put him in slow motion. When he did get there, however, he wasted no time in busting the door off it's hinges as it fell to the ground with a loud screech. The image that greeted him was haunting him, greeting him in a sickening, grotesque manner. He blinked a few times, his eyes hardening.

Jacob was off to the side, in the corner of the room, tears rolling down his face continuously. Every time he wiped one away two more came back in its place. The entire room was littered with beer cans, on the table, the floor, the small sofa, the damn _wall. _What the fuck?

And then there was Sam. He was on his knees, his shirt discarded and thrown on top of a lamp to reveal his toned muscles, rippling with every moment. He was covered in a thick sheen of sweat with his hands behind his head, the injured one awkwardly placed on his other hand in a less painful position. Sam was facing him as Dean came through the door, his eyes impossibly widening with shock as he watched Dean enter, questioning him insanely with his eyes. So he hadn't known Dean had been watching them.

Behind Sam stood an overweight man, his hair black with several upcoming gray, and white, strands. He wore a white, dirt-stained undershirt with a pair of worn out pants, large holes ripped at the knees. He too was covered with a small layer of sweat and, to Dean's disgust, held a whip in his hand.

The man looked up and, at the sight of Dean, he froze. The look on the man's face gave Dean an idea of what his own expression looked like: a living hell. His blood pressure was increasing with each second he had to stare at that man while he was still alive and his heart flew out of his chest in a spur of the moment necessity. He lunged toward the man madly, his sanity slowly edging away into the black abyss.

Out of his stupor, the man flung his whip at Dean swiftly, hitting him in the middle of his chest, right on the heart (P.S.- yes, I know you may be surprised but human hearts are not located on the left side of their chest, but in the middle. During the pledge, they put their hand over their left side out of respect, not accuracy or technicality). Ironic, now his heart hurt even more.

It stung, a damn lot actually, but it did not deter him from his goal, he was too close to roll over and die. The man noticed this, that noticeable, unmistakable glint in his eyes, that look of hatred crossing his features in a swarm of fury.

Dean threw himself on the man, pouncing like that of a tiger honing in on his prey, and knocked him to the ground, crushed between him and the floor. The man gasped, his head lolling back on the hard floor, his vision swimming. Dean punched him in the face, harder than he'd ever hit someone in his life. He wondered if it was the adrenaline or the dominant need to protect that made him so deadly, hell on wheels. He was still hitting the man mercilessly long after he had lost consciousness, and probably never would've stopped if it hadn't been for Jacob's scared, trembling voice.

"Dean..."

Somehow, he found himself in the crowd of people, swimming round and round in his head, taking control of him. He forced them back, pushing them away. Slowly, they dispersed, leaving him alone at last, helping him clear his head a little. Enough to realize what had become of his punching bag.

He jerked away from the man, whose face was now a puffy mess of red, blue, purple, even black. His nose was bent awkwardly to the left, and his eyes were shut tight, not only because he was unconscious, possibly dead, but because Dean had punched them shut, blackish shades forming around his eyes. There was some brown shit at the side of the man's head and Dean noticed there were tiny pieces of food in it. Vomit.

He spun around, suddenly remembering where he was, and swiveled his head left and right, frantically in search for Jacob. He was kneeling in front of him, concern and wariness in his watery eyes. Of course, Dean had just butchered and lacerated the man's entire face in a span of God only knows how long, Jacob must be scared as shit.

Sam was facing him as well, looking him up and down for injuries. Satisfied with his conclusions, he met Dean's gaze almost hesitantly. He knelt behind Jacob and was surprised he didn't move to stand in front of him, just in case Dean went on another tangent. He threw the thought from his mind, focused solely on the kids in front of him. Dean, too, looked him over for injuries and found shackles on his feet, linking him to the wall. The chain was stretched to the limit, disallowing anymore forward movement on Sam's part.

"Are you okay?" Sam asked, his eyes glistening with a quiet consideration Dean had never seen before.

Dean laughed sarcastically. "And you're asking _me _that? I'm good, but I believe you stole my line" he said, a sardonic look on his face. It fell suddenly. "How are you?"

Sam said nothing for a moment, just kneeling there, tied to the wall, his ankles swelling from the concentration of the shackles clasped tightly around his feet. Why ask questions you know the answer, the _real _answer to. Sam shrugged, eying the ground as if all of a sudden fascinated by the plain floor patterns. "I'll be okay."

Dean nodded despite his better judgment. He knew Sam wasn't okay, maybe never will be, living a scarred, lonely and desolate existence. But it was the best they could do.

Dean got up and brushed himself off, looking around at his surroundings. Jacob stood with him and Sam had meant to do the same, but Dean quickly placed a hand on his shoulder. "Stay". After a moment, Sam obeyed, sliding back down and sitting cross-legged on the cold floor.

Sam looked up at Dean. "How did you know we were here?"

Jacob flushed, looking away instantly. Sam, who had been originally watching Dean, gazed his baby brother skeptically. "Jacob?" Jacob looked down.

Dean looked over at Sam. "He had seen me in the forest," he said. "I thought you guys were talking about me and that Jacob told you."

Seconds later, Sam sighed, now fully understanding. A shadow of a smile graced his lips. "We _were_ talking about you. I knew you pretty well, and I had the feeling you would follow us, so I told Jacob to check it out." He paused, shrugging. "He told me he didn't see anything."

Jacob's head was down, his eyes shut tight. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to lie. I shouldn't have. I-"

"You were right not to tell me." Jacob looked up, confused. "If you had told me Dean was following us, what do you think I'd have done? Nothing? Let him find out even more about Eric?" Sam shook his head. "I'd make sure we lost him and that, when we got home, there would have been no Dean."

Dean noticed that it was Sam that was feeling ashamed of himself now, because it wasn't Jacob, his smile bright as the sun. Sam recognized that his judgment would have been the wrong one for once, that someone could be dead right now if Dean hadn't been there.

Dean went back to his search, observing the room with an observant eye. Sam noticed this. "What are you looking for?"

Dean searched another second before turning to Sam. "Does Eric have a set of keys to kill the chains?" He asked, pointing to Sam's feet.

Sam raised an eyebrow at his choice of words but let it go. "Yeah, it's usually in his back pocket" he said, throwing his head in the man's direction. Instantly, Sam realized the blunder in his words, the "usually" part giving it away, and looked at Dean, almost as if he were frightened of his reaction. He looked so vulnerable. Dean let it go for now, nodding and swiftly headed over to Eric's body. Grimacing at the man's face, he focused on getting the keys. He flipped the man over and stuck his hand down him pants pocket, no pun intended, and fished out the keys.

Time to save Sam from this eternal hellhole.

___________________

hope u enjoyed that!! it seemed pretty eventful, except the end. i hadnt even planned on ending the chapter like that, but it was late and i _really _wanted to get something up. Sorry about a lot of the mistakes in this chapter, i dont doubt there are a lot...i had to get it up in a hurry, my mom was on her way up the stairs, to me and my sis' room. Didnt wanna get caught. Hee hee, sneaky sneaky.

keep the reviews up, im in heaven here!! i tried shortening it up a bit, you know, the descriptions. Ive heard im a little _too _descriptive at times, to the point where they actually _skip_ an entire paragraph, and i just wanna know if you prefer it more like this. Actually, now that i think about it, its not that different. ill have to try it out next chapter and see if yall like that better. I don't even know if you noticed the difference but, if you did or are realizing now, let me know what you think --Thanks so much!!

Also, if u didnt notice, my new story is up ("Truth Forgotten") so u can go check that out if its ur cup of tea. Warning: some sexual harassment. I dont know if theres going to be more in future chapters, but i know it won't be graphic, so...look out. Hee hee =)

REVIEWS ARE LIKE COCKROACHES: THEY STAY WITH YOU FOREVER!!!

**P.S.- If you ever have anything specific you want to happen, let me know! i'll be happy to oblige!!  
**


	17. Chapter 17

_**Luv Ya like I love my pet fish Fluffy!!!!!!  
**_P.S.- I don't have a pet fish!!! **=O **

I may soon be getting a beta! YAY!!!

hope u like it!!!!!

**ENJOY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!**

**______________________**

He headed over to stand behind Sam, key in hand, when, in his peripheral vision, he saw Sam's back. He turned to face it completely, his eyes wide with shock. Oh _God, _his back. His back was no more, eradicated from the Earth, replaced with a mass of blood everywhere, a multitude of crisscrosses all over his back, overlapping each other endlessly. The whipping imprints were protruding from his skin, bulging from his flesh as a bulk of red. Sam had been whipped at least once before, Dean remembered, with those men in the alley. But it had never been like this. Not this bloody. Dean could feel the nausea coming up his throat, but he pulled it down. He squeezed his eyes shut. It was all he could do from remaining conscious. This had been what became of Sam and Jacob's fatherly figure, this was how he ended? A drunk, abusive guardian that destroyed his kid's lives before they truly even started?

On the small of Sam's back there was an engraving, a cursive manuscript in nearly illegible writing, black as night. He tried distinguishing the letters apart, the spacing between each non-existent, clashing into the other. It was Latin: _mei. _Dean's eyes began to water, his heart sinking further and further, being guided into a black abyss the size of his fist. He was being compressed to fit the shape, squeezed the life out of to be corrected, his deformities becoming perfected flaws. _Mine. _Sam's "father" burned the word "mine" into his back. Dean looked to the small fireplace and saw a poker; there, on the poker, _mei_ was scrawled on top from steel, still red hot. This man-- no, monster-- claims Sam for his own and expects to be loved? Oh _fuck _no.

The tears finally fell, slipping treacherously down Dean's cheeks. He wiped them away hastily, grateful he was behind Sam, because this was a weakness he really didn't want to be confronted with. Jacob had seen him, and left him with a sad smile, or, it supposed to be but, it turned more into a grimace about mid-way through. Dean applauded him for the effort, though. Very nice.

Dean worked swiftly through all the different keys, placing each one into Sam's ankle brace, not-so-easily distracting himself from the kid's grotesque back. The tears were blocking his vision dreadfully well but, after the third try, he found the correct key. The shackle snapped open, revealing a swollen and blackish ankle. Dean grimaced and looked away feverishly, just adding to his list of reasons to throw an axe into his left nostril. Damn.

Sam gasped as the shackle was completely removed, groaning as he got up from his position on the floor to stand up despite Dean's warning. He kept most his weight on the left leg, while he let the right one, the mutilated one, hang loosely in the air. Jacob came up to him, tears in his eyes, and they shared a warm, heart-wrenching hug. It was one of those hugs from a wife just seeing her husband again after he returned from war unscathed. It was beautiful, pure. Dean felt the need to leave the room.

Jacob's small tears slowly evolved into heavy sobs, violently wracking through his body as he snuggled himself further into Sam's chest. Sam rubbed his back and played softly with his hair. "It's okay, Jacob. It's going to be okay."

Jacob's mouth began moving, but his nonsensical words were meshed together. Dean could thread out a few of the words here and there, though, more often than not being "sorry", "Eric", "fault", and "hurt", not necessarily in that order. Dean decided to stop trying after realizing Sam was absorbing every word like the little guy was preaching. One person listening in on the conversation was good enough.

Dean's thoughts drifted to Sam. He'd have to go to the hospital soon, real soon. Not only that, but Sam's guardian was...MIA, so there will probably be some goddamn lawsuit to settle that. Dean paused. _Sam could finally come home! _With Eric gone, the only place they could go is with Dean and his father. There was no obstacle to get in the way of their being together now. The lawsuit couldn't put him and Jacob into another family, because the Winchesters _were_ their real family. It would all work out.

Dean hesitated, wondering if he should break them up. The hospital was a great option right now and, there, Dean would get some real answers. He was feeling anxious just thinking about it, and actually being there for it all would be even more difficult. He took a step forward.

"Sam." He looked up to Dean as he continued soothing Jacob calmly. "We need to get you to a hospital."

Dean watched as his words came into affect. Jacob began sobbing all the more, his spastic body convulsing with each breath. He tightened him arms around Sam's waist, and even Sam winced from the pressure.

"No, please. Don't leave me" he pleaded morosely. He clenched his teeth and tore his fingers into Sam, his nails connecting with his bare skin. Sam winced again but, this time, Dean wasn't sure if it was from Jacob's death grip or his remorse toward the situation.

"Don't you remember? Last time, when--" He sobbed. "Please, don't go back there."

Sam shushed him, whether to prevent hyperventilation or more spilling secrets Dean, once again, had no fucking clue. Or, that's what he told himself. How many secrets could one kinship have? They couldn't, without a shadow of a doubt, have _more. _There had to be some sort of limit per family. Right?

Dean let it go, allowing it to float to the back of his mind, refraining from further use but not entirely extinguished. "Sam" he said pleadingly. "It is your choice, but...with those injuries--"

Sam nodded, and Dean stopped mid-sentence. Sam knew the extent of his injuries, yet still he was having second doubts. He could probably die without going to a hospital, but it was almost as if he thought that, to Jacob, his accommodation in a hospital was far worse than any torture, any death. Jacob would probably be dead without Sam to have guided him through all his obstacles and Sam's wondering if he should sacrifice himself, for the sake of Jacob's happiness. How long would that happiness last, when he finally finds out how much he had lost?

"Sam, the hospital--" Dean said.

"I know." Sam said, squeezing Jacob tighter. "But I'm not going."

Jacob looked up, dumbfounded, obviously oblivious to how sick Sam would get without medical treatment. His face brightened despite the red cheeks and puffy eyes, and he managed a smile. "Oh, thank you, big brother! Thank you!" He hugged him back again, harder than before, not out of anger, but joy. He was ecstatic that Sam wasn't going to the hospital. But that, in and of itself, was questioning. Why?

Dean took another step forward. "Sam, can I talk to you--?"

"I said I'm not going."

Dean sighed. "I know, and I'm not going to make you." He looked Sam in the eyes intently. "I just need to talk to you. Now."

After a moment of eye contact, Sam nodded. He loosened his arms from around Jacob's waist and nearly had to pry his fingers out of his own flesh, gasping as Jacob's nails left imprints in the shapes of crescent moons, the sweat churning brightly, as if it were all a wonderful thing, an act fron God. He bent down to Jacob's level as Jacob looked at him sadly and whispered in his ear. "I'll be back, little brother."

Jacob shone brightly, nodding benevolently as Sam passed him to stand in front of Dean. Dean lead the way outside the house, to stand on the grass. It's colors weren't all bright and green, like the more prestigous families had the liberty of, but a brownish, duller color.

Sam stood to Dean's left, then walked down the first step and sat on it, perching on the stone step. Dean did the same.

Sam looked up, watching the sky observantly. Dean wondered what Sam saw that he never did.

"More questions?" Sam asked.

Dean nodded, sighing. "More questions."

Sam nodded in return, already expecting it. Dean picked up a small stone breaking apart from the steps, lightly rolling it from hand-to-hand. He faced Sam, who was still watching the heavens. Is that what he saw? "What did my dad do?" He looked away to watch the sky as well. "He said it was a long time ago, that it was nothing." He turned back to Sam. "Is that true?"

Sam sighed pitifully, as if he _really _didn't want to answer that question. "He's right, it was a long time ago." He shook his head, "But that doesn't make it any better."

"What'd he do?" Did he really want to know, or was he just going through the motions?

Sam quit his staring contest with the sky, most likely already winning the match, and went to observe Dean keenly as Dean did the same. Sam looked exhausted, bags under his eyes and his breathing a little ragged.

Sam sighed again. "Do you remember when I told you I had had fighting lessons? That I didn't remember who my instructor was, that it had been so long ago?" Dean nodded, knowing where it was headed. "It was your, _our, _father that taught me." His eyes looked dazed. "I realize why he had done it now, to protect his son..." He began to stare at one of the lower steps.

"How is that bad?" Dean asked, his eyebrows furrowed in confusion. "It's a good thing John did that, he taught you self-defense."

Sam shook his head. "He taught me murder, slaughter," he spat, insulted. Sam's face looked strained, as though a war was battling in him. "He taught me how to fight, then told me I had to kill someone to the pass the test. A murderer, he said." Sam's eyes were glassy. "We were in the forest, with the man's hands behind his back and a bag over his face. I hadn't seen his face before John put the mask on him, so I didn't know a fuck who it was. And, truthfully, I didn't give a fuck either."

Sam smirked darkly, his laugh nothing compared to the carefree and happy laugh Dean remembered so well, the one he put in his chest. "He taught me well."

Dean gulped, getting a different, less known view of both the father and brother he cared for and loved so much. "What did y'all do to him? The murderer?"

Sam kept a straight face. "He was no murderer. I just hadn't known it then." Sam wiped his nose. "I tortured him, the same way the people in the alley tortured me-- chainsaw, whip, I put a chain around his neck and dragged him. I pulled his fingernails off with tweezers." Sam put his face in his hands, ashamed. "And, when he finally died, John told me I could look at the body, see his face. I did, not really expecting anything special, just some anonymous bastard no one would ever miss." Sam gulped loudly, his mouth going suddenly dry. His eyes were brimmed with tears. Slowly, each began to fall down the curve of his cheek.

Dean squirmed anxiously, maybe even a little frightened. He had never seen Sam like this, never.

Sam began to sob softly, trying so hard to keep it all in. "John...John he believed that if you lost something special to you, that it made you stronger." He sniffed, wiping his nose with the back of his hand. "He made me kill my best friend."

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_HOPE U ENJOYED IT!!!!!!!!_

it might be a little short but i thought it was a good spot to stop!

sorry for the delay. I hate writing 3 stories all at once. Im a multitasker at the best of times but, right now, i feel like im on overload over here. Oh, and its been decided!! Once I'm done with Left to Die (or Found in Time, whichever comes first) Ill get back to writing Waiting Hastily!! YAY!

ok, i hope the descriptions are better again. i had worked on it, deleting some of my descriptions! i hope its good enough!

Reviews are awesome. For Chapter 16 I only got about 10. that had been when i got up my new story and I think everyone forgot about this one. Fortunately, i have no "Truth Forgotten" chapter up today, so plz take the time to comment on it. I'd appreciate it very much!!! -luv ya!!

**REVIEWS ARE LIKE COCKROACHES!! THEY ALWAYS STAY WITH YOU!!!!!!**


	18. Chapter 18

i apologize for not updating in forever, literally. i had once told you guys i would never quit anymore unfinished stories and here i am, doing just that. im really sorry, i promise it wont happen again. i have come back to finish this story and i WILL. i understand if u dont want to review, and i dont blame u. it wont change anything, i assure you, because im doing this for you all, not me. right now, adoration is not on my list of priorities.

i will admit it will be hard to keep updating. i had to have arthroscopic surgery on my knee-- a lateral release-- and i still havent recuperated. I think my knee cap was too much to the left so they had to go in and cut off some ligaments. ill be fine, but physical therapy is taking up my life, and im going to georgia for vacation in a few weeks, but ill be done with this story by then.

i havent decided if im going to keep writing or if im just going to complete my unfinished stories and be done. its still under consideration. reviews might help with thattt...but im not expecting many, so its cool

i was trying to decide if i should make a long chapter and take longer or make a shorter one and get it up sooner. I chose the latter, but hopefully the next update will be soon

hope u enjoy! its up, at long last!!!

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_Recap: Sam began to sob softly, trying so hard to keep it all in. "John...John, he believed that if you lost something special to you, that it made you stronger." He sniffed, wiping his nose with the back of his hand. "He made me kill my best friend." _

Dean sat there, his mind slowly drowning, further and further down it'd go, till it just disappeared. Poof. Gone. He was in pain, physical pain, as if his heart had somehow been ripped from his skull, and he didn't know what to do, what to say. How could his father, his _hero_, make Sam do something so vile, so treacherous? It has to have eaten at Sam all his life, brought him to the brink of insanity to know what he was capable of becoming, until he was but a twig, a small part of his former self.

He had continuously tortured his best friend unknowingly, only finding out when John wanted him to find out. He had been a puppet, used by John to become the perfect fighter, the perfect killer, the perfect son. He did something to Sam he wouldn't have been able do to Dean. Dean had friends, friends that cared for him, that would have noticed _something._ But what happened to Sam acted as a shield of sorts, it protected Sam from all kinds of dangers, but Sam couldn't be protected from himself. All that self-hatred he had for himself just piled up, until he could finally let it all out, like he was doing now.

The revelation of what John did to Sam, no matter how much it changed Dean's opinion of his father, it did answer one thing. He had previously been inquiring how John could possibly have known Sam was _his _Sam, and with good reason. John had been keeping an eye on Sam his whole life, or close to it, and had come for him when Dean thought he was just on another hunt. He taught Sam how to fight, how to protect himself, anything he needed for honed survival instincts. Then he had Sam torture a man, see if he had what it takes to physically crush him, only to find out it was his best friend. It sent Sam off the edge; he ran away, and was forever scarred.

For them to actually run into Sam here, was it a miracle or was it planned? Had John purposely found a hunt here so he could see Sam again, see what he had become?

Dean seethed in anger, his hands fisted tightly in his short hair. How was he supposed to help Sam when he couldn't even help himself? He was weak, so damn weak, and he was the one having a mental breakdown. Sam needed help, and here Dean lay, drowning in his own pity party. Was he falling? Falling into a deep hole, an eternal hell that lived and thrived off his misery, his pain. He was seeping through the cracks, sprinkles of dust flowing down into the core. He had no mask to hide behind and, as far as he was concerned, there was no such thing. He was dying inside, and he knew it.

He turned in Sam's direction. Tear tracks still present on his cheeks, he stared at Dean for all it's worth. Like so many times before, Sam scoured every inch of his face, his eyes wide and his face filled with uncomprehending affliction. Was he...scared? Puzzled? Another tear fell down Sam's cheek as he watched Dean. He opened his mouth then, suddenly, turned around to look back at the house. Confused, Dean did the same.

Jacob was standing at the front door, wide-eyed, his hand still resting on the doorknob. He looked at Sam's weary expression then flashed his gaze at Dean, an anger Dean had never seen on him ablaze. Jacob ran to Sam, tears already beginning to flow, and threw himself to his knees.

"What happened, big brother, what happened?" He landed in Sam's lap with a small thud as he wrapped his arms around his waist tightly. Dean watched them silently. When Sam was staring at him, what had he seen? Did he see the internal fury raging toward his father like a damn tornado? Is that what Jacob had seen as well, but mistakenly thought it was to his brother?

Sam rubbed Jacob's back soothingly. "It's okay, little guy, everything's fine."

Even though Jacob was facing away from Dean, he could almost _sense _Jacob's look of disgust. He let go of Sam's waist to look him in the eye. "How could you even _say _that? You're _crying_." Jacob swirled around in Sam's lap to face Dean. His eyes told something furious. Dean wasn't sure how to react, he'd never seen Jacob like this before. Apparently, Sam wasn't the only protective one.

Jacob stared at Dean accusingly, eyes glazed in rage. "It was _you, _wasn't it? You did this to my brother." Jacob hurled himself to his feet in that of a drunken state-drunk on fury if anything--and marched menacingly in Dean's. He was a small kid, but there might as well have been a horde of them. It was that scary.

Dean held up his hands innocently. He knew he couldn't defend himself properly, he might hurt Jacob. And, right before Jacob was on him, the little squirt was snatched up by a strong hand and set back in Sam's lap on the other side of the stairs. Sam held him close to his heart and somehow, presently unknown to man, had Jacob sitting calmly, as if sedated, in a matter of short seconds. Sam knew Dean was innocent, no matter how much his father wasn't, and didn't plan to hold it against him. He didn't want his little brother to hate Dean, because he didn't deserve it.

Sam whispered inaudibly in Jacob's ear for a long time, getting the occasional gasp out of Jacob. Was Sam possibly explaining what John had done to him? Dean couldn't be sure, Sam was being so quiet he was surprised Jacob heard it, and he was in his damn lap. Did Sam not want to be seen as a murderer in Jacob's eyes and chose to tell a lie? Was Jacob too young to hear of something so grotesque?

Whatever Sam was saying, it was effecting Jacob drastically, whether for the better or not Dean didn't know. Once he began to hiccup, tears streaming down his cheeks, burying his face in Sam's chest, Dean believed it was a turn for the worse. Would Jacob go on another tangent.

Sam, still lightly stroking his back, continued whispering in Jacob's ear. It appeared simple enough, but Dean was anxious to know what they were talking about. He knew Sam wouldn't sell him out, but what was _he saying_? Was he saying he could trust Dean, that he was a good person? Dean may never know, and it was killing him.

Jacob nodded to something Sam had said, then slowly took his head from Sam's chest. He unwrapped his arms, giving Sam one more prodding look, then turned to face Dean. He smiled lightly; it appeared only slightly strained, as if there was other news he had learned of that wasn't so good, but was nonetheless genuine for what it was meant to be. He stood from Sam's lap, smiling as he entangled his legs from Sam's, and Dean could see Sam was smiling as well. Dean rose an eyebrow at Sam but he said nothing, his alluring, radiant smile never fading.

Jacob came to sit beside Dean, to his surprise, as his smile widenend. What was he doing? Before Dean could investigate further, Jacob wrapped his arms around his waist, squeezing him closer. Dean gasped, then internally cursed himself for not being more prepared, even if it _was _unexpected. He instantly threw his arms Jacob and hugged him fiercely, Jacob's happiness flowing into him, singing a sweet song to him as it lured him into contentment. Jacob put his mouth near Dean's ear. "I'm sorry, Dean. I was wrong." Dean nodded against Jacob's shoulder, knowing he had gotten the response. After several long, delicate moments he realized he had absent-mindedly closed his eyes. He opened them, feeling foolish, and was surprised to see Sam's gaze on him. Sam still had the smile on his face, allowing it to enlighten his features to the point of enticing, angelic humanity. He brought his hands up, still looking at Dean, and made them into the shape of crescent moons. Dean continued to watch Sam inquisitively as he hugged Jacob tighter, rubbing his back soothingly as Jacob surprisingly did the same.

Sam brought his hands together, entwining the crescent moons that were his hands. Dean's heart fluttered and jumped up to his throat. He laughed, he actually _laughed. _Sam's hands created a heart of flesh, and Dean felt his eyes begin to water. Jacob released himself from Dean's embrace and turned to Sam, raising both eyebrows questioningly. He saw the heart, and laughed as well. It wasn't like Dean's, though. It was a cute, almost high-pitch laugh, the laugh of the uncorrupted, untouched by evil. He wasn't fully tainted, he was still young, still youthful. With Dean, he could still recover from all the pain he had gone through.

Dean's laugh died in his throat and his smile faded. Jacob, he was repairable; he wasn't broken, only cracked. Get some super-glue and he was good to go. But what about Sam? Sam was completely shattered, probably beyond help. Could Dean mend Sam into a kid again, the way he was supposed, _deserved,_ to grow up, or would he be pained forever, living the nightmare that already passed?

Sam, as well as Jacob, had stopped smiling. Sam's hands dropped to his sides as he destroyed the heart, replacing it with a dull, painful void of nothing. They stared at Dean with dubious expressions as the two witnessed the emotions Dean had playing on his face. Jacob, not as seasoned, couldn't read them all, but he knew Sam would. He would at least have an idea what was going through Dean's head, and it was one idea too many.

Dean didn't want to talk about it, especially in front of Jacob. How would the squirt react if he found out that Sam's past may be irreversible? What if everything Sam has been through haunted him forever until the day he died and Dean could do nothing to prevent it?

His eyes began to water, but not out of joy this time. Not out of joy at all. He felt his very being begin to darken as his thoughts turned on him. He wished Sam and Jacob's guardian, _Eric,_ hadn't died, just so he could beat the fuck out of him all over again. He wished that guy at the bar would show himself so he could rip his flesh off and spoon-feed it to him. And that gang, oh _damn_, that gang. The ones that tortured Sammy until his life was nearly pulled out from under him, if they showed up, damn...would Dean be getting a good workout.

He turned back to Sam and Jacob in an instant, coming back to reality in a rush. Jacob had cowered away to sit beside, or more like _behind,_ Sam. Rather randomly, Dean began to wonder why Jacob hadn't sat in Sam's lap. Did he sit in his lap only to have Sam move him? Was it because Sam wanted to be ready? Ready to protect his little brother if the moment presented itself?

Dean's eyes clouded with self-disgust at his actions as he put his head in his hands. "I'm sorry". It was muffled, but he knew Sam heard it. "I didn't mean to." He didn't know what he was apologizing for. Was he apologizing for scaring Jacob? Or because his thoughts had gone darkside? Both.

Sam had removed his arm from in front of Jacob, a protective stance in and of itself, and scooted closer to Dean. Sam nodded in response to Dean's apology and sat beside him, hoping Jacob would stay where he was while he spoke with Dean.

He did.

Sam put his hand on Dean's shoulder and neared his ear discreetly. "What were you thinking about? Before?"

Dean looked him in the eyes. He searched and searched in those deep blue eyes, those eyes with so much knowledge. Sam really was naive when it came to himself. It didn't even cross the kid's mind that Dean was disheartened by _Sam's_ life, or lack thereof. Sam had no idea Dean cared so much that he'd die for him and, if he did know, he would never understand it. Yeah, they were family but Sam believed Dean had no reason to actually love him. He thinks he's just as important as dirt on the floor.

Sam rose an eyebrow as Dean clenched his fists tightly on his chin. Dean tried some deep breathing, a little soul-searching, and a lot of praying to just calm himself down enough to speak. Dean looked into Sam's eyes again. What did he plan to say?

Dean opened his mouth, then shut it profusely. He licked his lips. "I'm scared that..." He stopped, licked his lips again. "I'm scared you won't heal. After all this shit has been thrown at you, I'm scared you won't be able to live a normal life again." Dean shut his eyes tightly. "I'm scared for you."

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its not thatt much of a cliffhanger but itll do =)

i read my story ALL over again just to remember what the heck has happened, so hopefully this update was worth it. I realized i have a LOT of grammar mistakes, and i apologize for that. it takes away from the story and hopefully it didnt make the experience too heartrending.

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	19. Chapter 19

hello again everyone! oh my gosh, i was soo sad. I had totally written out this WHOLE chapter, but i accidentally deleted it. Can you believe that?!?! it worked out differently this time somehow, but hopefully its preferred and this is what u wanted to happen. it was also a little longer but i decided to shorten the details so i wouldn't have to write _everything _over. Most of u like less descriptions anyway, so it should work out nicely.

_i appreciate the reviews i got for the last chapter! thanks everyone!!_

**WARNINGS: slightly shorter than preferred and many grammatical errors. If you don't like, don't read....hee hee, i just wanted to say that**

____**ENJOY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!**_____________________

Sam eyed him carefully, thoughtfully, as he took the words in. And Dean _knew _he was taking the words in. They were hard for Dean to say, so damn hard, and he was wondering on the thought process they were leading Sam's mind to. Was Sam happy to hear there was another person prepared to die for him. Dean hadn't said it in so many words, but he got the point across. He knew that Sam had seen the utter emotion filled in those simple words, and he also knew how Sam would translate them. The exact way Dean wanted them to be translated.

Dean's eyes began to water and he eagerly looked down. He knew Sam had seen it, but maybe there was a chance Jacob's eyesight wasn't enhanced enough to catch it. He hoped so. He wasn't used to feeling so vulnerable. He was placing himself on the weaker side of the coin, something he had never had to do in his life, not even when his mother died, and he didn't know what to think about that. How could Sam effect him like this? He watched a small pile of dust begin to drift slowly to the left as a gust of wind blew passed them. Really, how could Sam make him act like this? This weak, timid, self-conscious man who was scared he was going to piss his pants.

Dean stole another glance in Sam's direction. He was in the same position, one leg curled under the other facing Dean. Sam was looking down as Dean had been, but more intently so, as if in a faraway land Dean couldn't get to. He wanted to, so bad, but he knew he couldn't. Nobody could. Sam's mind didn't work like everyone else's, it was different, special. This was his way of coping with something. His method of dealing with the unbearable. He didn't take it out on random people or walls or his own wrists. By placing himself in another world he could be saving himself and his mental capacity, it was his escape route.

Dean hadn't thought about it like that, not until now. There had probably been so many instances where Sam just felt like giving up, not only on himself but on life, but, instead, he had fought for that life, life that was anything but vile to him, and fought hard. Physically he was here but, spiritually, that was another matter entirely.

Sam's brows creased as he came back to reality, possibly drawing a conclusion on something. He met Dean's gaze. Dean searched Sam's facial expression intently as Sam almost always did the same. Dean furrowed his eyebrows slightly, taken aback. He internally saddened as he looked at Sam. He had this void, empty demeanor about him. And not because he was keeping up a facade or wearing a mask. He just felt..._nothing. _Dean had never seen someone with no emotions, it was so strange, so outlandish. Was it possible to not feel, was Dean just misreading the signs? No, he couldn't have been, he was too good for that. Dean searched again, looking further into Sam's deep blue eyes, and saw nothing.

Was he finally giving up?

Right when Dean thought it'd be too much, Sam broke through, just for a fraction of a second. It was small, no more than a twitch, but it was more than enough for Dean.

Sam was fighting in there, he knew, against himself no less. He was so mystified and in complete disarray, not knowing how to _feel _about another person there to help. He wanted so bad to be happy, content, but what would happen if Dean abandoned him? That what he saw in Dean's eyes wouldn't last, that it'd decrease so much until it was just a flicker of light in the surrounding darkness. Dean very much believed that's what Sam's inner turmoil was focused around, and it probably was. Jacob couldn't leave Sam, he needed him. And, contrary to what Sam so much wished for, he needed someone as well, and not just Jacob_. _He needed _Dean. _He couldn't leave Dean, but Dean could leave him. He thought it was one-sided devotedness to the other, as if Dean could just walk out on him because he needed Sam no more than he needed a pet dragon, which, at this point, he absolutely did _not _need.

Dean, pained, inched closer in Sam's direction by scooting his ass across the floor and placed a hand on his shoulder. He tried to appear sympathetic, but he wasn't sure it ended up too hot. He knew Sam saw the effort, though, which definitely helped his cause a little.

He looked Sam in the eyes. "You know, kid, I'm not going to leave you."

His expression turned into an aggravated, or displeased look yet, at the same time, his heart seemed to be uplifted with hope. It hadn't been what Dean had expected at all, the aggravation, and stopped in his tracks. Did he say something wrong? Like Dean said earlier, this was one of those times he was that timid, self-conscious man that felt like he was going to piss his pants. It was a tremendously ego-defiling thought for any man who would have to deal with such feeble, painful sensations.

Sam said, "How old are you?"

Dean rose an eyebrow, befuddled. What did he just ask about? His _age_? To Dean, it was more than a little irrelevant. Hesitantly and probably more than a little cautious, he answered, "Twenty".

Sam continued watching Dean, a small smile playing on his features as he replied lightly, "We're four years apart yet you insist to call me 'kid'. What is _that_ all about?"

Dean's mouth turned into a wide smile, his heart soaring. Did Sam really just say that, or was he imagining. To his right he heard Jacob reply with a laugh, and Dean most nearly joined in. He stayed strong.

"Well, you know how it is. I _am _the eldest, am I not?" Dean said with a big smile.

Dean heard Sam mutter something like "egotistical jerk" under his breath, but his angelic smile told Dean more than enough contradiction. Sam didn't actually hate him, just the opposite, actually. Sam was all but accepting him into his life, and Dean felt amazed. He punched Sam's arm lightly. Dean paused, already regretting it. His breath caught short as he eyed Sam carefully. What if Sam's hard life didn't allow him to witness or understand anything playful or joking? What if Sam took it threateningly?

Those thoughts were spontaneously eradicated when Sam's smile increased to be that of a _wide _smile. Dean's own returned in an instant as Sam punched him back, just as light. It felt as though everything was right in the world. Jacob was rolling on the floor with fits of laughter, Sam continued to smile that wide smile, and Dean smiled because Sam, his _brother, _was smiling. Dean's life had never been this good, so why had it all changed so suddenly? Happiness can be taken in an instant, Dean knew that, but it could also be received in an instant.

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Dean wanted to further express to Sam that he _did _care and he would _not _leave under any circumstances, but that was for another time. Things had to be prioritized and he was starving. His stomach grumbled with aspirations of its own as they entered a nice, affordable restaurant. It was already 8:30 and he hadn't had anything since lunch. Sam and Jacob appeared slightly mesmerized, Jacob more so, by something so simple and mundane, and Dean wanted to curse, a _lot. _This was just another thing they had been deprived of all there life, it just wasn't fair.

Dean led them into a booth, Sam purposely allowing Jacob to take the inner part of the booth while he stayed on the outer, just protecting his flock. Dean smiled at the loving but discrete affection Sam had for Jacob. If they weren't real brothers, how did they meet? Dean was extremely curious but, once again, he was unsure. It might be a touchy subject for them and he didn't want them to feel like he was trying to force it out of them. They have options now, and he wanted them to know that.

A waitress arrived with three menus, dispersing them to each individual. Sam and Jacob eyed them questioningly, throwing Dean a glance that basically said "What the hell is this?" Dean would have thought it was hilarious if not for the reason behind their mystified expressions.

"My name is Tami, and I'll be your server today." She threw a glance in Sam's direction as she flipped her long, black her dramatically. Sam could sense her gaze, and looked up at her questioningly. She winked, offering up a sly smile.

Dean wanted to eat her face off and spit it all over her low-cut shirt, he really did. She was hitting on Sam, the bitch, and he was _sixteen. _It would've been more appropriate for her to hit on _him_, not that he wanted it. She looked no less than thirty-five, give or take a year or so. Sam didn't seem to fully understand what she was doing, both to Dean's thankfulness and slight melancholy, but it looked as though he was dealing with flirtatious women as he always had in the past, his signature move. He rose an eyebrow.

She didn't seem to catch on, thinking Sam was just shy or something dumb like that. That damn smile was still on her face, and Dean hastily interrupted. He coughed, as if in a fit, before speaking. "Umm, yeah, will have three Cokes. Thank you."

She looked thoroughly displeased, but flipped her hair back and walked, or _strutted,_ away. Dean internally sighed with relief. Sam's eyebrow was still risen, and Dean threw his hand up exasperatingly. "Don't worry about it."

Sam nodded, and said no more. For now, at least, he thankfully trusted Dean enough to let it go. Jacob pouted as he looked at the menu.

"What is a 'rib-eye steak'?" Jacob's expression turned to one of disgust. "Does that mean it has an eye?" He turned to Dean imploringly.

Well, at least he can read.

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ok, sorry its kinda short, i had this all written out but ended up deleting it so i kindaa lost the urge to keep going. ill try to be less retarded next time. there was a lot of fluff in it. i thought you guys would want a break from the sad stuff for a bit. should be more suspenseful next chapter ;)

i hope this version is better than my deleted version. in the one i accidentally deleted Sam was more accepting on Dean's words about how he was "scared for him" and was appreciative of his "misplaced" devotion. i hope this ones better, though, because i kinda like how it turned out.

hope u liked it! :D

**i appreciate all the reviews i received for the last chapter!**i have my email on my iphone so when it vibrates (it vibrates when i get email) i get soo excited. then i find out its usually a coupon or something, which makes me sad...but, when they ARE reviews, i get really hyped, so thats always good.  
reviews areeee nice =)

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	20. Chapter 20

all right peeps, here is yet another chapter!! i feel like this one may be a more boring one for you suspense-lovers! it appears yet another 'break' is in order because their in the diner the whole time. i believe next chapter will involve John...actually, to tell u the truth, i dont know what to do with him yet. hmmmm.....ill have to think about it. i made him so evil i dont know what to do with him. grr!!

i have zeroo beta. well, actually, i had talked to someone about betaing me before i momentarily quit, i may need to get back in touch with her. hmm.

**ENJOY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!**

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After a full description of what a rib-eye steak was and that it did _not_ contain any form of eyesight, Jacob was finally at peace with it and the entire menu. Dean laughed mutely at Jacob's unawareness. It was adorable. Sam had also appeared curious at the thought of it with eyes, which just added to the fuel of Dean's laughter. It kind of died in his throat at the _reason_ for their lack of knowledge, though, but he did not allow his mind to dig any farther. He should be happy while it lasts.

Sam eyed the menu with a rather peculiar gaze. After a few more seconds, he closed the menu, giving up, and looked at Dean.

"I'll have what you have."

Jacob nodded furiously, abandoning the menu as well, pushing it to the side with a careless toss of his hand. Dean smirked, nodding in response.

Tami, the waitress tramp, came back, appearing with three Cokes. She set each down carefully next to the individual, starting with Dean, then Jacob. Turning to Sam, she set his glass down, bending down real low- showing off the merchandise, of course-and offering up a wink. It wasn't returned as he just offered a fake smile, still uncomprehending, probably just trying to be friendly. He didn't know what the hell she was trying to do, Dean thought lividly, so Sam had just went along with it, thanking her for the Coke.

She nodded frivolously before standing at full height, flipping her hair back behind her shoulders.

"So what can I get you?", she asked Sam as she gathered a pen and notepad from her front pocket.

Sam looked to Dean, to which he quickly responded "We'll have three burgers and a side of fries." After writing down the simple order and seeing how she hadn't left yet, Dean added nastily "Thanks so much. Appreciate it." Dean offered her a fake ass smile, all but shoeing her off as he waved his hand dramatically, practically screaming at her to leave. She huffed, but said nothing as she walked away briskly.

Sam rose the eyebrow, not understanding Dean's suddenly crude behavior. Jacob noticed as well, his eyebrows creased and his lips pursed.

"Why'd you do that, weren't you being kind of mean?"

Jacob had deliberately implied it, allowing his words to stray from actually accusing him of something. Dean knew what Jacob's thoughts were straying to. Maybe people didn't see inconsiderate actions the same way he and Sam would. Jacob, alongside Sam, didn't know how "real" humans interacted with another, which led him to believe so many others could communicate with tongues of venom and it'd be just fine for the listener. For all he knew, people spit on other's feet and cut off their finger as a personal greeting.

Sam noticed the same implication, and was just as curious. To him, her flirtatious, or more accurately _slutty_, persona was nothing out of the norm, completely natural. It was just one person being amicable to the other. Neither he, nor Jacob, saw Tami for who she most obviously was.

Dean understood, though. He knew they weren't used to the real world yet but he somehow had to explain that someone like her wasn't usually a good person, in one sense at least. If someone was hitting on you,I mean _truly _hitting on you, like Tami, and you don't even know them, it's fairly reasonable to conclude that she was promiscuous, which is something most real men should be above. She could try something on them if they weren't careful, too, defile them. Dean had to get them to understand there was more than one kind of evil.

This could get awkward.

Dean's cheeks turned a red tint, which just made Sam grow even more confused. Did he know what "blushing" meant, or was he unaware of that, too? By the look on his face, he was well-aware of what it meant. He could tell Dean was embarrassed but, for what, he didn't understand.

Dean scratched the back of his head distractedly. "Well, she's not really the kind of person you'd normally want to be around." Dean looked anywhere but at the two confused kids in front of them, not wanting to see their faces when it finally clicked. "She's the kind of person that's..." Okay, how the hell is this going to work? He can't explain to them what it means without _saying_ something. He decided putting it bluntly may be the only way to actually get it inside their heads. He internally sighed, wishing he could skip this conversation completely as he watched a couple enter the restaurant, hand-in-hand, and giggling softly to each other.

Jacob's pout grew. "I'm so confused." Sam's eyebrow was still risen when Dean looked to him. You could tell he was trying so hard to connect the pieces. Dean could almost see the puzzle in his head a jumbled mess, the pieces littered all over the ground, unsure of where to place themselves to complete the puzzle.

Dean tried again, hoping for more success. "She's the kind of person that tends to be...sexually rambunctious and is often known for her...well, to put it nicely, her _adequacy_ of getting a guy in bed by using her...innate sense of touch." He hadn't meant to be that blunt, nor had he meant to give a damn lecture on it, but he didn't want the one-sided conversation to last anymore than it had to. He wanted them to understand, comprehend all of life's facets, he truly did, but this was a subject for another time.

Thankfully, it did bring a look of understanding to their faces, then instantly turned to that of horror. Dean sighed with relief, allowing himself the reward of a gulp of soda, silent wishing it was beer.

Jacob's mouth hung open, aghast. "You mean she wanted to get my brother in _bed_?" He asked, his mouth ajar. "But she's, like, _40_." With that, he stuck his tongue out in outrage, obviously disgusted by his own thoughts.

Sam now had his head in his good hand, a tint of red on his cheeks. It seemed as though he was attempting to shrink in size, but his endeavor was fruitless. Dean chuckled, leaning over the table to ruffle his hair lightly. Sam just buried his head deeper into his hand, his cheeks turning even redder with the scrutiny.

After a moment, Sam cheeks turned normal again but, if anything, they seemed a little pale. He seemed to have realized something else. Once again Dean could nearly see that puzzle of Sam's in his own head but, this time, all the pieces fit in perfect order, not in a jumbled heap. Only, with the pieces in perfect order, it formed the shape of a skull, red fire blazing around it ominously as it's mouth grew wider and wider, preparing to you suck up in a heap of flying limbs and destroyed dignity.

His face paled a shade lighter, just barely noticeable to the human eye, with that of an ashen color.

He looked up, trying to act casual as he met Dean's gaze. "This..."sexual rambunctious" behavior the woman had..." He paused, finding the right words. Jacob watched him curiously as he took a sip of his Coke. He eyed it curiously after a gulp, his eyebrows lifting at the sweet flavor it had. "Can a man have this behavior as well?"

Jacob's mood seemed to darken, his liking for the Coke a faint memory as he all but bore holes in Sam. But he appeared sad most of all, as if he _really _didn't want to hear the already known answer spoken out loud, but appreciated Sam's effort to understand. Sam turned to Jacob, meeting his gaze. Jacob set his Coke down, speaking in a hushed voice.

"Are you...are you asking about Eddie?"

Jacob seemed to be visibly shaking, his shoulders wracking with silent shivers, his hands shivering as if from an unknown chill. Sam set his hand on Jacob's, halting his convulsive shaking, and looking deep into Jacob's brown eyes.

His next words were whispered quietly, but loud enough for Dean to hear without straining his ears. "You'll be just fine, Jacob. Nothing's going to happen to you anymore. I won't let him, or anyone else." He moved his hand from Jacob's to pat his hair lovingly. "You're safe."

Jacob's eyes began to water, but he nodded. "I know." It brought a smile to his face, knowing without a shadow of a doubt that Sam would always be right beside him.

Then it clicked. Sam was asking about this because of Jacob, because of his incident with Eddie, that bastard that got in a fight with Sammy at the bar. Sam had once told him how the man had almost raped Jacob, because of fondness or vengeance he hadn't been sure. And he now wanted to know if _all_ men were capable of the same things, had that same potential, if they were people just like Eddie. If Jacob was at risk to more than just one man with some weird "sexually rambunctious" deformity, then Sam wanted to know.

Sam turned to Dean imploringly. "Are there more men just like Tami, or Eddie?"

Dean nodded his head sadly, wishing to God he could have give them a different answer and still be telling the truth. "Everyone has the potential to be the abused and the _abuser_." If anyone's pushed hard enough, they'll almost always pushed back. "We just have to be careful."

Sam nodded, continuing to sooth Jacob into bliss with kind words and soft hands. He seemed to be over the small episode already, the near rape so long ago that he's all cried out. Maybe, for the most part, he's over it.

The thought of Sam and Jacob first meeting entered his head again. He was _so_damn curious, but he just didn't know if he should bring it up. It could be something similar to what happened with Eddie, or worse, if there is worse. What was Sam like before Jacob? Was he still the ever vigilant, observant, kickass ninja he is now, or were all those traits the aftereffect of meeting Jacob, all performed to make him safe.

Sam could sense Dean's thought process was not with reality, and watched him intently. Dean jerked back to the present with a jump. His hand most nearly knocked over his Coke, but saved it just in time. Jacob was completely better now, taking another sip of his own soda.

"You know, this stuff is really good. What do you call it again?"

Dean smiled. "Coke."

"With a 'k'?"

Dean shook his head. "'C'."

Jacob nodded comprehensibly, taking another sip of his Coke. Sam continued to watch Dean thoroughly, as if trying to unlock Dean's mind, hoping his own was the key. This kid was just so damn _curious. _He wanted to know so many things, he wanted to understand people's thought process since his was so much different. It confused him, making him wonder if something was wrong with him or his brain just worked weird. His beautiful blue eyes showed that deep, incomprehensible wisdom, and once again Dean found himself wondering how the hell it got there. Did he read a lot? Did he even have the money for that?

Sam saw a flicker of change in Dean's facial expression, creating a bewildered look. Did he notice how curious _Dean _was? Probably. Dean didn't put it passed him to read every single expression on his face then translate the meaning of it and convert it into daily life. He was good at that kind of stuff. Damn good.

Sam pursed his lips, something very uncharacteristic of the kid, and eyed Dean carefully. Dean allowed the scrutiny of his emotions to continue, it was something Sam had always been allowed access to and Dean didn't want to fight it. Sam wanted to understand, understand so bad, and Dean would gladly let him under most circumstances.

"What are you thinking about?" he asked furtively, calculatingly.

Dean knew he'd be caught if he lied, but he didn't know if they would appreciate getting into how he and Jacob had met quite so early in the game. They trusted Dean, yeah, but were they willing to confide in him? He didn't know, but only the truth would work with Sam around.

Jacob eyed him curiously as well, taking another sip of Coke. Dean shrugged his shoulders, but made sure not to let it appear careless, maybe more thoughtful. "I was just thinking, you know?" He eyed a ketchup bottle, then, as a distraction, began sliding it across the table to stop at his waiting hand. He did that several times, straying from the two kid's gazes. "I mean, you two aren't real brothers." He added quickly, "in the biological sense, of course. And--"

"You were wondering how we met" Sam said plainly, showing a little relief that he had learned a little more of Dean's mind.

Dean nodded, but said hastily "But you don't have to tell me, Sam. If you don't want me to know, I'm fine with that. Really--"

Sam held up a hand, a sad smile on his face. He had noticed Dean's blabbering as an uncharacteristic thing for him to do and saved him the humility of finishing. "It's fine, Dean." Sam shot a quick glance to Jacob, as if asking for permission, to which he gave a small nod.

Sam nodded, then turned back to Dean. "We're willing to confide in you, not only because you actually want to help us, but because we do trust you." He smiled. "We really do."

Dean beamed to hear those words coming from Sammy, like a load had been lifted from him. But it all seemed to dissipate as he continued watching Sam. He was looking down at his untouched Coke, seeming hesitant, as if he wasn't sure he actually wanted to go through with it. Yes, Dean believed that they trusted him, but did Sam actually want to relive it? Was it really that bad?

Dean sat stock still with baited breath as Sam cleared his throat.

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i dont know if this chapter is still considered short but i thought it was a good note to end on. hope it was to your liking!

all right, so i have some relatives from florida coming over --- spanish-speaking relatives. eek! _no hablo espanol_!! =( --- and i dont know how long they'll be staying. there's, like, five or six i think so i dont know if i will have time then. butttttt, i should have another chapter or two up by then so we dont have to discuss it now. i should find out more about that later.

haha, and yes **xxxxxxxLIZZYxxxxxxx**, i DID get excited when u vibrated (nobody go pervish on me because unfortunately lizzy did and shes the one that WROTE it!) i had been a little sullen before actually, because a few minutes prior to your vibrate there had been _another _vibrate. on THAT one i got excited....until i found out it was for Barnes & Noble. then i got sad. then i got another vibrate and, when i saw it was a review alert from you, i was like YAYY!!!!  
yeahh.....so thats how _that _went down....

anywayyyyy, hope u all enjoyed that chapter and i hope to update soon. i have physical therapy tomorrow at 1:00 so i may be _slightly _exhausted for an update tomorrow, but im sure ill at least work on it. u never know.

REVIEWS ARE AWESOME. THATS ALL IM GONNA SAY. REVIEWS ARE AWESOME


	21. Chapter 21

ok, so i realize its been almost 2 weeks since ive updated, and i apologize for that. Some family from Florida came over, then with all the physical therapy added into the equation, I just never found the time. i will be leaving July 19 for a few days on vacation, so hopefully i can put in one more chapter after this before i go. ill be sure to get one up the day I arrive back home. but, until then, hopefully this uber long chapter will suffice.

for 2 weeks ive been trying to decide how this story would pan out and I _still_have no idea whats going to happen, even as we speak. Right now im just going with the flow here, seeing where it takes me. hopefully it'll work out okay.

this chapter's gonna be a little different. hope its to ur liking!!

**ENJOY!!!!!!!! Reviews are always great!!!!**

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I woke up to the feeling of a cold wind as it began running up and down my spine, rustling through my thin clothes and inside flimsy boots as if made of mere paper. The cold hit my face, making it's way to the core of my body until everything was frozen over. I shivered violently. How long have I been out here, sitting on this cold floor and yet _still_ not dead? It was a sad thought, to think I'd been demoted to such a state. A state of absolute isolation, no friends, no family, nobody to look to for help except my reflection. But I didn't need help, I kept telling myself. Besides, who would help someone like me? Some little boy, huddled into a corner as if a poor, defenseless puppy, kicked and abused until finally it ran into the streets for escape. Except, for me, there was no sense of bliss, no true escape. This _was _the escape, right here. There was nothing that came after this, nothing to save me from this horror, nothing except death.

And I would gratefully accept death. Nobody would notice. In the middle of the busiest streets and the most lively clubs I could slit my wrists or blow my brains out and no one would give a care in the world. Either that or they're too ignorant to notice. You never know with these high-class, prestigious monsters.

I sat on the corner, playing with a piece of dirt on the ground, mulling over unwanted thoughts. Was I the monster? How would you define it, if you ever saw one? Something with claws, large fangs, dark wings, a sense of pandemonium, and a thirst for blood, or just something different, out of the norm? _I'm_ different from all these people, in almost every way. All the people that pass through the streets are human, yeah, but they live nothing like me. Nobody sits on the curb waiting, waiting for something to tumble over and greet them, be it death or just a friendly face. Was I a monster in their eyes, or just a small boy with no true sense of direction?

I sat in my self-pity, _well-deserved _self-pity, of course, and kicked ruthlessly at a small rock, as if it were the cause of all my pain or just the answer to all my problems and I was just using violent methods of negotiation, either seemed to play the part stupendously. I was as alone as I could get, nobody roaming the sidewalks or driving fruitfully along the roads at this time of day. Just me and the rock, my new best friend. We were all alone on this god-forsaken deserted road.

....or were we?

There was this other kid that would come, another boy. I had long ago named him, like I had done for so many others I see walking down the streets and pouring into the nearest stores. You get bored after a while, and I named this particular guy Fred. It didn't seem to fit him, but I went with it. He would sit across the street from me, his already thin frame even smaller when the huge market is towering over him from behind. Every single time, Fred would offer me a small smile and each time it never seemed to touch his eyes. The way his skin would stretch too tightly around his mouth, as if the smile didn't _fit._ Like he was eternally sad, scarred for life, even when he tried so hard to be happy. It was weird, to notice things like that, that it didn't "touch his eyes". I mean, I'm only 7. It made me feel kind of cool that I could see something like that, when so many other, older and wiser people were too oblivious. Though it wasn't even close to being considered even a mediocre accomplishment, it was the best one I had, and I did what I could to use it.

Fred came from behind the huge building, clothed in rags looking even thinner than mine. He never seemed to be affected by the snow or the cold and, initially, I had been seething with envy, avoiding his courteous expressions with a loud snort and curt turn of the head. It was rude, I was well-aware of that fact, but I just couldn't _understand. _Everyone hates the cold, and if not that then they're at least affected by it. Even the rich women wearing fur coats and warm leather pants complain, repeatedly cursing the weather with all their spite. Fred was completely immune to weather. But later on, when I finally stopped brutally ignoring him, I began to realize that it wasn't just the cold, it was everything. Nothing affected him, not even the slightest, the god of indifference. One time a man came up to Fred and spit on him, right in the face. I had internally winced, then rubbed my face sympathetically as if getting it off of _me._ He'd just wipe the white, icky saliva off him, and turn his head in the other direction. Civil Disobedience- refusal to obey something when it is believed to be immoral. Maybe that's what that was, choosing to refrain from comment or action because he believed it was _wrong._ I would watch as he wiped the spit off him, just wishing I could be like him. He was a good bit older than me, I knew, but it seemed like he was _ages _older. I don't know why, I really don't. Maybe it was his eyes.

But this time, instead of sitting on the street across from me as usual, instead of his usual spot, he crossed the street, not even bothering to look for cars on the deserted road. I instinctively guarded myself, not sure what to expect. This had never happened before. Fred did something different for once, and it scared me a bit. We had always seemed to have this distanced relationship, not just across the street but across the world, some unspoken connection. Never singe-handedly created, just _there._

He had a warm smile on his face, not the usual semi-fake one, as if amused by my expression. I instantly put up my wall. It wasn't much, just a mask made from flimsy pieces of straw, but hopefully it'd do the trick. He seemed to see through it, though, to my disdain. He stopped walking when he reached me, choosing to stand directly in front of me for a moment, as if pondering. From close up, he appeared much thinner than I had once realized, his shoulder blades protruding from the worn fabric and his jaw bones pronounced under his skin.

Fred continued looking down on me, his smile growing almost a half an inch.

"May I sit here?"

His voice was velvety soft, and my natural instinct was to trust it. I don't know why, maybe it was the soft tone of it, or the sweet expression on his face. Either way I nodded, gesturing hesitantly to the ground beside me. He shouldn't have had to ask, I owned the space just as much as he did. Probably just common courtesy. Sam took it, his own body appearing guarded and ready, yet, at the same time, it seemed so habitual for him. Like he _always _had to be ready, even with a seven year old kid like me.

He turned to me, looking me in the eyes, searching. "So", he said, almost casually. He was the one initiating this conversation, not me. "What is a kid like you doing here all the time?"

He looked a bit awkward saying it, as if he wasn't actually accustomed to real human contact and, if he were, he didn't really enjoy it. I could tell he seemed just the _slightest _bit nervous, possibly because he's never actually talked to me before, only seen me and smiled from a distance. Or was it because he just wasn't up for speech?

I didn't really know how to answer that. How should I? Fred had purposely tried to keep it light, but both of us knew their was a deeper meaning to it, that _someone _had happened for me to just end up on the streets. I sure as heck wasn't in the mood to do any soul-searching, much less with _him, _and turned to look at a huge "Pedestrians" sign. It was even taller than I was.

Noticing I didn't plan on answering, he looked away from me, most likely also sensing that something _did _happen to make my lifestyle so deformed. He watched an old man come from a small store, putting most of his weight on a cane as he went down to another, more prominent building.

Fred sighed quietly, then turned to look back at me. "So what's your name, kid?"

I pouted, pursing my lips and crossing my arms over my chest dramatically. "I'm not a kid. And my name's Jacob." I had said it a _little _meaner than I had initially meant, but I needed to make sure I got my point across. Stupid, know-it-all with cool hair. The thought came up before I had time to squash it back down. I took another peak. I was willing to give into that thought, I guess. It _was _pretty cool. It was long and smooth, his bangs coming into his face just so. I stored the renewal of jealousy in the back of my mind.

Fred's smile came back, more genuine. "My apologies." He paused, reaching out a hand to me, his fingers extended. "I'm Sam."

I looked at it hesitantly. What the heck was I supposed to do with _that_? Was it some form of defense or did he want to play a game of the thumbies with me? On the streets there would be little kids calling it "thumb wrestling" (what a dumb name) where they'd attack each other's thumbs, trying to pin the other's down for a time. I rose my eyebrows, pulling off my best confused look as I poked it questioningly.

Sam's gaze saddened, as if he suddenly understood why I wasn't doing anything with it. He instantly packed it away, as if it had never occurred, replacing it with a smile. "You're supposed to shake it. That's what you do when you greet people."

I stared at it for another second. "Oh." I reached for it hesitantly, only a little comprehensive as I shook his hand with what appeared as apprehension. I let a small sigh of relief pass my lips, suddenly proud of myself.

Sam let out a tiny laugh, as if reading my mind. Once again, I felt that it was a bit forced, as if he thought I would appreciate his response as a amiable laugh, as though he thought I was funny. I was about to reply rudely, the immature side of me begging for release, when his face grew suddenly grim. I wondered whether he had read my mind _again_, but, though he was looking at me, he was paying no attention. He seemed focused on something else, and jumped to his feet as he spun wildly behind him. I watched in awe, wondering whether or not he had whiplash from the sudden movement. It was a thought for another time as I too willed myself to my feet, in a confused daze. Sam stood tall in front of me, a protective stance if anything, and purposely blocked my view. What was so bad he didn't want me to see?

He probably thought I was too young.

For some reason, that thought enraged me. My fists clenched tightly to my side, and I was only half-consciously aware of the growl emanating from my lips, slipping easily through my teeth. How _dare _he. He can't just decide something for me, leave me out of something that involved me as much as it did him. I hastily through his arm back, away from my body, and stepped from behind him furiously. Anger bubbled in my stomach. I fed off it, letting it seep through my pores. It was irrational, but so what? I'm seven.

He turned to look at me, stunned. He eyed me as if silently pleading with me to get back, to move away from whatever it was we were suddenly facing. But I didn't. Instead I offered him a satisfactory grin, a look of pure dominance to my foe. I don't know why I did that. Maybe I felt liked the idea of actually being better than someone. It wasn't good enough to be considered a true victory, since I had only stepped away from him (not much of an achievement), but the idea of being about to do _something _enthralled me. I'm a loser, sure, but if I could find something I could claim as my own supremacy instead of some false hope I conjured up in my brain, then maybe I could be somebody different, somebody better.

I turned to look at what Sam was so jumpy about, and suddenly I wished I hadn't. My face flushed as I felt the blood pour down to my feet, leaving my face a cold, white mess. A ghost.

I wish.

They paid me no heed, all eyes currently on Fred. Erm, Sam. There were three men standing no more than 20 yards ahead of us. And when I said men, I meant _bulls,_ all lined up in a row, preparing for their last stand. Each and every one of them had that sneering look on their face, content on the idea they'd been able to catch us, or Sam, off-guard. They all had injuries of some kind, most just minor scratches on the cheek or arm. I winced noticeably as my eyes landed on a man on the end, his right eye completely obliterated, replaced with a void spot. The left-over hole was visible, an eerie, gaping fissure in the man's face. He caught my gaze, laughing like there was something on my face.

The biggest one there, his pinky containing enough muscle to knock off Pinocchio's nose in one, swift and painless motion, was the obvious leader of the Brawns' Trio as he stepped forward. Two more men took that time to creep from behind the corner, making their appearances known with ruthless smiles. I looked over to the big man again with hesitant eyes as he snorted. An even wider smile crept onto his face. "Nice seeing you again, little Sammy. We've missed you so _very _much."

Sam winced, but said nothing as he eyed them all carefully. I watched as his eyes lowered to all their clothing, searching for any concealed weapons. My face drained even more, and my legs began feeling wobbly. Did Sam _expect _there to be weapons? Am I about to witness a fight?

The big man grabbed a gun from the inside of his jacket. Sam watched him and rippled the effect, instantly slipping his hand to the small of his back. Half a second later, his eyes widened furiously, and I looked to his back to see his hand grabbing at handfuls of air. I gasped loudly. If there was supposed to be a weapon there, it wasn't.

The crease in Sam's forehead became more prominent. I could almost _see _him mentally hitting himself in the head, hating himself even more. He was warped in such a loathing self-hatred and my heart did a weird, painful flip. What was supposed to happen now, now that we were defenseless and ready for slaughter? It was five against two, the latter having _zero _weapons while the former had at _least _one.

The five men noticed the utterly pained look on Sam's face, the empty weight in Sam's hand as he drew it back to the front, each grinning from ear-to-ear with an excited expression of some sort. The big man, a grin on his face, brought the barrel of the gun up, pointing it in my direction.

My heart stopped. What had I done, did I do something wrong? My legs shook furiously and my eyes swelled up with tears. Was this the death I had been awaiting for so long? I had always been ready for death, prepared to make that leap of faith. Even on dark, lonely nights I would often pray for it, wishing it upon my soul while I slept. It never came and, now that I finally got to confront it, face-to-face, I didn't know if I wanted to. Not anymore. If this was what death was, I didn't want any part of it anymore. I wanted out. _Now. _Death, or in this case near death, isn't all it's cooked up to be.

The big man's smirk widened at my very much prominent fear. Sam cursed, making a move to stand in front of me. Before he took a step, however, the big man cocked his gun, the loud click deafening to my ears, making my heart drop to my stomach. He rose an eyebrow cockily. "Do you really wanna do that, Sammy boy? If you move, I shoot."

Sam growled. After a moment, he took a step back, holding his hands out innocuously, as if pleading to over and over that he _wouldn't do anything_. _Just don't hurt him._ Looking at him now, he didn't seem like such a bad guy. It looked like he was actually _trying _to keep me alive. It made me happy, despite the situation. No one had actually cared for me before, not that I could remember. Had I done something to make Sam feel as though he should repay me? Rekindle the broken path so he could continue on his way without regret.

My contentment drained ever-so-slightly with the idea Sam may not genuinely want to save me. I didn't look further into it, though. With a gun at my face and five bulls blocking my way, I had to keep my priorities in line. First up: survival.

Sam took a long breath, as if mentally preparing himself for the climax, the finale of the grand parade. "What do you want?"

All of their smiles turned erotic, their expressions full of lust and voluptuous thoughts. I juggled their appearances in his head, scrutinizing all of them with a slight squint. Out on the streets, he had once seen another, different man stalking a very pretty woman and he had had that same lust, the expression the five men in front of him now have. After long nights of consideration he had discovered he had actually been attracted to her. When he figured it out he popped himself in the head, realizing how _obvious _it was.

And this was the same way.

I threw my head back and forth and turned to Sam, then the man, then back to Sam, and back to the men. I was so confused. Weren't relationships supposed to have a man _and _a woman? I obviously wasn't keeping up with all these normal people, I have missed so much it's ridiculous.

The big man stepped closer, the barrel of his gun never straying from my forehead, as if a huge "X" allowed him something simpler to target and all he had to do was point to the X. I stopped breathing, suddenly scared that, if I moved, the man's gun would instantly detach itself from it's staring contest with the "X", and he would somehow sense it as well, turning and shooting me a million times in the gut. Well, I wasn't really sure where the gut _was, _but I had heard the term used multiple times so...obviously it fit.

I turned ever so slightly to see Sam in my peripheral vision. He had taken his foot a small step back, away from the man, then chose to plant it there, as if re-thinking his previous strategy.

Now all the men were coming forward, the bigger man still two steps ahead, the gun still trained intently on my forehead. I gulped, my legs feeling like jello and my brain feeling like cooked spaghetti.

Whatever was going to happen, the ball was in their court (Does everybody say that or was it just the old man I heard one day at the market? You never know with Old George..). I could do nothing to help Sam or hurt them. I felt like a hindrance, a heavy weight pulling Sam down until he had no choice but to save me or leave me for dead. One or the other, he could get on with his life as usual, as long as he survived.

Which brings us back to my list of priorities.

Sam appeared taller, but his shoulders were seeming to sag, as if suddenly coming to terms with the near future events. He had obvious played through all the possible solutions in his head, I could tell. He had that sense of defeat, that no matter what he did it wouldn't be good enough. And besides, how old was he? 11? 12? Come on, the five men in front of us were so much older than the both of us, and, even in relation to me, Sam was still just a kid.

Oh damn.

I almost threw a hand over my mouth in a large rage, infuriated with my own thoughts. I had once seen a lady scolding her child for using bad words, saying the devil would take him away because he liked bad words, and I had kind of picked up on the habit of trying to speak nicer, kinder words.

Bullshit.

This time I did shove my hand on my mouth, hating myself both for moving and for having thoughts the devil wanted to hear. Nobody seemed to notice though, because the big men had all simultaneously began to run, the veins in their arms protruding as they flew. They were like a horde of bulls running around in a meadow, and they were roaming straight in Sam's direction. I could almost imagine a huge cloud of smoke billowing over them with an ominous presence, charging at their prey, hoping for death, thirsting for blood.

I screamed, their faces still wide with lustful looks, all pointing to Sam. Sam turned suddenly to look at me, my screech bringing him back to the real world. "Run!" I stood there, feeling as though I was in slow-motion. The world seemed to spin and I shook my head vigorously until it slowly put itself back in it's place. I just stared at him, completely stunned and taken aback. He wanted me to run? As in, _escape_? But what would happen to him? These men, they could do anything they wanted to him, and there was nothing he could do about it...Was he really willing to make that sacrifice, just for a lowly child like me?

I began to hate myself, a pool of self-doubt pouring into my stomach, a bad taste coming to rest on the back of my tongue. I had always seen him in a bad light, always been jealous of him, hated him for being better than me, stronger than me, _braver _than me. I could never be like him, and I took it out on him instead of myself. Why? Why had I done that? Here he was, giving away his freedom so he could pass it on to me.

I felt my eyes swell as Sam bellowed out a final "Run!" before he was tumbled to the ground, the leader of the group throwing his body against him and throwing him to the cold floor with a loud thud. His smirk widened as he planted a big, fat kiss on Sam's lips. He fought the man, throwing his hands against his chest frantically, his eyes wide in horror.

I stood there, too petrified to move. The tears kept coming, pacing themselves down my cheeks until they fell off my chin and onto the ground. I took a few steps closer to them and held out a hand. I stopped. I couldn't do this, my head kept yelling at me, what if they came for me, too? What would happen to me then? I let out a loud cry of pain as it dawned on me. I gasped, dropping to my knees as the dam burst. How many times in my life have I taken the easy way out, how many times I've willingly chosen to let someone suffer just so I could continue living in my ignorant, blissful state of mind? How I've picked an easier path just so I didn't have to deal with the difficult one. I cried even more as I shakily got to my feet, already knowing which path I'd chosen.

I ran.

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did u like how its in first-person and in Jacob's point of view? Did you realize it was Jacob or were unsure for a little while?? Did it flow well?? Im curious, lemme know what u think!!!

_HOPE YOU ENJOYED IT!!!!!!!!!!!!_


	22. Chapter 22

im glad most of u enjoyed the last chapter, an anonymous reader had requested it so i hope i did it justice and expectations were reached. it was kinda hard to write, actually, but it was kinda fun doing something different and hopefully more maturing.  
also, i reread the chapter and i SERIOUSLY have to agree with **GotTheShining_. _**The story just didnt sound like it was coming from the words of a 7-year old, and im sorry about that. he just sounded too sophisticated or too all-knowing or _something_. my bad, people, didnt mean to. but i dont think i really plan on doing anymore 1st person anyway (unless requested), so......yeahh

i have also heard from **Miss Dassy **(and many others im sure) that my descriptions may be a _littttlllleeee _too detailed, and can get a pretty boring. once again, i apologize, and ive decided, for this chapter, i will try harder not to have so many descriptions. if it is preferred over my other chapters then ill keep it more simple throughout the story. i guess it can take away from the story at times. i also apologize for updating late, but the bahamas _was_ awesome. have yall ever seen the movie Mall Cop, where the chubby guy (Paul Blart??) rides along on a Segway? Well, i got to ride one of those, and it was pretty hilarious....and hectic.

school started last thurday (Aug. 6) and already we have a MAJOR project for honors english....it pisses me off SO bad. and its a group project too. i despise them so much, because i always end up with the stupid, lazyass people that dont do a thing. ughh...

anywaayyyyy, i also have other thoughts for another fanfic (i know its sad, i can barely work on this one and i wanna do another). i _do _plan to finish this one first, i promise. actually, this may be the last chapter, depending on the reponse.... **but here's the next plan, (and it will be on my next poll as well) tell me what you think:  
-On a hunt, Dean and John learn some things about Sam he has been holding out on. Sad!Sam15 Pissed!Angsty!Dean19,John  
-Sam runs into an old acquaintance. Has the man changed for the worse? Limp!Sam17 Pissed!Dean21  
-Sam, Dean, and John are captured and thrown into the back of a truck, their fate unknown. Their predators may be human, but appearances can be deceiving. Hurt!Sam14 Pissed!Dean18,John  
-----------------if you have anymore ideas or requests (i do oneshots too) let me know!!!!-----------------**

anyway, hope u guys like the next chapter. this chapter will have less detail!

___________

Present-day

Both Dean and Sam stared intently at Jacob, their eyes wide with surprise and amazement. Dean had not been planning on _Jacob _telling the story, thinking he wouldn't be ready to recall harsh memories through his own words.

The surprise of Jacob's outburst died quickly though, and was replaced with a fierce anger. His hands clenched tightly to fists, and his brows were already beginning to gather small drops of perspiration. He could feel his outrage piercing through him, taking a hold of him and tightening its grip. How could two kids live like that and still be alive today? One on the streets and one abused by a gang, a bitchy father, and several other outside forces.

Dean sensed Sam had immediately cataloged his thoughts as he softly grasped Dean's curled fist sitting on the tabletop, giving it a small squeeze. Reluctantly, Dean meets Sam's gaze. It was full of emotions, something Sam was not known for often. He offered Dean a small smile, as if trying to tell him it wasn't his fault, that it was okay.

Grudgingly, Dean unclenched his fists, letting them lay flat on the table. Sam's smile widened, probably proud he had gotten to him so quickly and puts his hands back in his lap. Despite all the negative emotions he could feel rushing through his body, Dean couldn't help the small smile growing on his lips.

He was getting soft.

He watched as Sam put a comforting arm around Jacob's waist, edging him closer to his side. Dean took the time to inspect the little guy, whose cheeks were red and stained with tear tracks but, what really caught Dean off guard was, he was smiling. As if he had finally forgiven himself from running away all those years ago, and was actually _okay _with everything that happened. Or, as okay as he was going to get.

Sam seemed to notice as well, who crunched him to his side even more and placed a small kiss on his forehead, ruffling his hair. Dean's stomach churned, reminding himself suddenly of the big burly man from Jacob's recollections of the past. How he had planted a dirty kiss of his own on Sam's vulnerable lips. He shoved the memory away violently.

Sam released Jacob and soon their table grew quiet, the only noises consisting of sipping, slurping (Jacob), chewing, smacking (Jacob), and swallowing. Dean's thoughts swirled in his head in a constant vortex, a million thoughts in a place void of happiness. What was he supposed to do with them? With all this shit happening, could Sam and Jacob just pick up there stuff and leave?

Only one way to find out.

After they finishing eat the waitress came and, without throwing one glance at Sam, probably in fear of Dean's wrath, placed the bill on the table and left. Dean took it, paid, tipped a dollar (reluctantly deciding he had to tip her _something_), and headed out with Sam and Jacob on his tail. Dean got into the driver's seat, already knowing and willingly accepting the passenger seat being empty, and headed back to the motel room. He was damn tired, and a little shut eye wouldn't hurt. Sam and Jacob were small as hell, too, _surely _they could fit in one bed. He looked in the rear view mirror and shot a glance at Sam's bandaged arm. They had to take the kid to a doctor, this couldn't go on forever. Yes, Jacob asked for him not to go, the reason for _that _completely puzzling (what the hell wasn't puzzling about them), but Jacob was completely unaware that Sam's wound could be _fatal _without treatment.

Dean sighed, hoping he could convince Jacob and convert him from the dark side. Surely he could, once Jacob knew of Sam's condition he wouldn't be willing to take the chance of being alone. He's been with Sam long enough to know he can't live without him. Dean considered this, how he was going to word the conversation when it finally arose, but the bed and 12 hours of sleep was beginning to take precedence over his now meager thoughts.

He turned into the parking lot and, even tired, made sure to park at least two spaces away from the nearest car. Getting out, he lead the two into the motel and through the elevators easily. Their fright of the elevators was apparently no longer an issue as they casually strode in and leaned side-by-side against the farther wall, hands in pockets.

Once they got to the room, Dean slid his card through the slot, already having the awkwardly electronic key down to an art, and lead Sam and Jacob in.

The newspapers were no longer covering the walls and furniture, now stacked neatly on top of Dean's bed. The dirty clothes usually piled in corners of the room were no where in sight, except for a few strewn on the bed, leaving the floor with an unwelcome, empty pit on the edges. _What the hell is this? _He walked in cautiously, already reaching for the gun in the waistband of his jeans. He looked around and watched as the bathroom door cracked opened. Dean stepped toward the bathroom, his heart racing, and simultaneously motioned for Sam and Jacob to stay back, Sam's brows creasing and Jacob inching slowly toward Sam. The door opened the rest of the way and John stepped out carrying his toiletries in one hand, more newspapers and handwritten notes in the other.

Dean's jaw dropped, his mind reeling as it played it back. John? Dean could have hit himself right then. He had forgotten about Sam's utter...dislike of John, what with all the shit that has happened lately. Of course Sam, and consequently Jacob, wouldn't be willing to come with Dean, _John _was there. Because of what John had made him do...

Damn it.

John looked a little surprised at the group, but continued to his duffel bag, putting his things into the bag. "Hello boys" he said trying for casual, but had just a hint of discomposure that told Dean all he needed to know.

Dean watched in horror as his dad continued packing up his duffel, putting the stacked newspapers neatly inside, then a few leftover notes as well. He was leaving, leaving for _them. _He was willing to sacrifice his son so Dean wouldn't have to sacrifice Sam. He felt something sting at the back of his eyes, and tried so damn hard to ignore it.

"Dad, what the hell are you doing?" he asked, stepping forward hesitantly toward his dad. John stopped for a second, as if pondering the same thing, then got back to stuffing his bag with a few pairs of socks and underwear.

When John was finished Dean didn't even think to see what Sam and Jacob were doing then, just stared at him as John stared back. After a few strained moments, John looked away, a sad smile crossing his features. He sighed, shrugging his shoulders lightly. "I fucked up. I hurt Sam, _my own son_." He shook his head, keeping his gaze off Dean as they strayed to a small, tattered table. "I did it once, I'm not doing it again." Then he did look at Dean, every feature so serious and so intense Dean nearly lost his balance. "I want you to live your life, son" John continued. "That's all I want."

The glistening in Dean's eyes was no doubt there, but he couldn't bring himself to do anything about it, to recover. Was his dad leaving him forever so he could stay with Sam, or only temporarily? Did Dean_ want_ his dad to leave? Was he willing to make that sacrifice?

The tear rolled down Dean's cheek, making it's way down his chin and onto the floor. He sniffled lightly. "Shit, Dad." He walked up to John swiftly, throwing his arms around his father's shoulders tightly as John did the same. He placed his head at the nape of his neck, something Dean hadn't done since childhood, aching for some tangible feeling to come and claim him and grant him happiness.

But he would always love his father, even if he _did _do all those bad things to Sam. He hates John for it, but he loves him, too...Damn.

John patted in between the shoulder blades before breaking the hug. He picked up his duffel and turned to Dean, a sad smile crossing his features. He let out an almost inaudible sigh, gripping tightly onto Dean's shoulder. "I'm gonna miss you, son."

Dean sniffled, another tear rolling down. "I'm gonna miss you, too."

________________

ok, so this was short but i didnt really want this to be the last chapter.i was thinking i would just need one more to wrap it all up. if u have any requests for this or another story, plz let me know!!

**THERE WILL BE A POLL FOR THE NEXT STORY! be sure to vote on my page!!!  
**


	23. Chapter 23

before the read, i would like to thank **Reincarnated Poet **for the great advice (i did a little dance with the review :), along with all the other reviewers. they mean a lot to me, and im truly grateful. im sure that if it hadnt been for you guys, i think i wouldve stopped a long time ago.

alright, on with the last chapter!

**ENJOY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!**

Dean watched in silence as his father continued to pack up his few, meager belongings. As he was doing so, he noticed his father carrying an unfamiliar key. He squinted. It was the same shape as the black one for the Impala, but appeared lighter in color, more grayish.

John threw the luggage over his shoulder and turned toward the group. He wasn't holding any weapons, so Dean considered he had already put it all in the secret compartment of the trunk.

The Impala?

Dean felt his mood darken even more at the thought of losing the beloved car. His mind was all jumbled, couldn't even piece together the simplest of puzzles. He just stood there, face to face with his own father, a tear slipping down his cheek and along his jaw. So this was goodbye.

John took a few large steps and pulled Dean into a tight, fierce hug, both his arms nearly engulfing Dean's shoulders and upper back. Dean's grip was just as tight, his hands tight around his father's waist.

John shifted minutely, slowly bringing his mouth close to Dean's ear. "I hope you'll forgive me one day."

Another tear fell down Dean's already-stained cheek, making it's way onto the floor. He said nothing. He wanted, so bad, to say "_There's nothing to forgive, Dad" _but he knew it wasn't true. He had hurt Sam, his _brother, _and that was not something he was going to take lightly.

John did the smallest of nods, as if already resigning himself to Dean's silence. "You know I love you, right?"

Dean quivered, his bottom lip shaking violently. "Always."

------------------

Evidently, John had taken the time to buy a new truck to leave Dean with the Impala. And when he said "truck", he meant "_bigass, monster weaponry machine". _Dean smiled sadly at the man's chose of transportation, waving toward his father's retreating figure as he drove down the path, next designated hunt being near Minnesota.

With a newfound depression, Dean prepared his body for the trek back into the motel. His own hunt with John, the werewolves, had been left completely forgotten, and he didn't have the energy to worry about it now. He just didn't.

As he turned to the small entrance to the motel, he saw them: Sam and Jacob, side-by-side, offering him small, just-as-sad smiles. _Their sudden depression,_ Dean thought_, was probably for a different reason than my own. They're sad because I'm sad, right?_

Sam took the initiave step forward as Jacob stayed where he was, his expression the same grim, barely noticeable smile. Sam pulled Dean into a hug of his own; not fierce, like John's, but soothing, comforting. Dean embraced it with the same notion, wrapping his arms silently around Sam's too thin body. Samput his head in the crook of Dean's neck, and Dean took the time to place his hand softly in Sam's hair, ruffling it lovingly.

Sam's voice was barely above a whisper. "He can stay, you know? I don't hate him anymore. You love him too much for me to hate him."

Dean's eyebrows furrowed, his hand in Sam's hair stopping in place. He couldn't mean that, could he? Dean knew better. John had hurt Sam, scarred him even, and he knew Sam's love for the man would never equal anything. He was doing this for Dean, the selfish bastard. He knew how much John meant to him and, so be it if he must torture himself for Dean's happiness.

Dean shook his head fervently against Sam's head, knowing he felt the sign of his denial. "No, Sam, I'm not doing that to you. He's going to Minnesota for a hunt, and that's where I expect him to stay." He tightened his grip around Sam, just now realizing he had meant the words entirely, bringing a small, but genuine smile on his face. John didn't belong in his life right now. Sure, he'd probably continue hunting, teach Sam and maybe even Jacob, but his father was no longer in charge of him. He could make his own decisions now with the these two, probably the most important ones in his life.

-------------

Dean sat quietly at the front porch, his hands clasped lightly over his stomach. These were the kind of moments he would remember forever, he told himself without shame. Despite the fact he felt like he was in some part of a chick-flick movie, it felt _right, _and that was good enough for him.

Sam and Jacob chased each other on the small lawn, Jacob throwing himself on Sam's back, toppling them to the floor. If Dean hadn't have known better, he would have went to see if they were okay, but he _did _know better. Sam wouldn't let Jacob get hurt and Jacob wasn't strong enough to hurt Sam.

Sam swiftly flipped over, throwing Jacob under him, who was currently in a laughing fit. He got even more rambunctous when Sam attacked Jacob's armpits, a weird squeaky noise escaping Jacob's mouth, tears running down his cheeks.

"Ahh! Ok, I give up. You win" Jacob said hysterically between gasps of what seemed like laughing gas. After a moment, Sam stopped and got up from on top of him, finally standing on two feet. Jacob stayed on the ground, his eyes closed and his arms splayed out thoughtfully over the grass. He looked so at peace, Dean thought inwardly. Sam was probably thinking the same thing as a small smile graced his lips.

He turned to Dean, then walked over toward him. Sam sat next to him on the bench, taking a long, tired breath, the smile never leaving. Dean laughed a little, placing his hand on Sam's shoulder and giving it a small tug in his direction. Sam complied, allowing his head to be placed on Dean's shoulder as he ruffled the kid's hair.

For a moment, they just sat there, watching Jacob, watching the cars go by, watching people walking their dogs. Everything was the way it was supposed to be, exactly how Dean wanted it. Albeit, he did want to start up hunting again but, for now, this vacation was necessary. If not for him, then for Sam and Jacob.

Dean moved his hand from Sam's hair to rub his back. This was exactly how it was supposed to be. The three of them, together. Dean smiled, his hand going up and down along Sam's back soothingly. "You know I love you, right?"

From Dean's position, he could see the beginnings of a small smile etched on Sam's mouth. He smiled. Sam replied.

"Always."

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alright, so thats the end of that one. remember to vote for ur fav story on my profile.

i want to thank all of you readers for baring with me and i hope the ending met expectations!!

hope u liked it!!!!!!


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